


It's the Light and It's the Obstacle That Casts It

by ImpalaLostiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Aliens, Alternate Season/Series 14, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art, Attempt at Humor, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Cover Art, Digital Art, M/M, Monsters, Mystery, Post-Arc: Apocalypseverse Michael Possessing Dean Winchester, Post-Possession, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Small Towns, Smut, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-24 17:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20911136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpalaLostiel/pseuds/ImpalaLostiel
Summary: Dean decided to throw away everything, including his own life—choosing a watery, dank, coffin at the bottom of the ocean over the possibility that Michael could escape his dive bar-esque mind palace.Castiel wasn't pleased with this decision. In fact, he fucking hated it. He was so frank with his disapproval that Dean eventually got fed-up and told him "it was over". Subsequently, no one was there to talk Dean down from kamikaze-ing himself below sea level. Sam was complacent. Mary was off with new Bobby. And everyone else that would've disapproved was kept in the dark.And then Jack killed Michael.Months after Dean's suicidal plan was knocked off the rails, a case needs solving.





	1. they say in heaven, love comes first

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isangelousdenim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isangelousdenim/gifts).

> What's up, goblins, 
> 
> This was meant to be apart of a d/c bang. It didn't pan out. Totally my fault. Other IRL problems happened too. But I'm just making bullshit excuses.  
Isangelousdenim made the funny artwork at the end, so please give her love. Seriously, she got the idea/inspiration after reading and made the piece on her own time without any prompting. I love her so much. And I'm so thankful for her.
> 
> The title is from a Hozier song. I know. It's a cliché. SHUSH!  
Also, each chapter title is a song lyric.  
Anywho, hope you like reading it as much as I liked writing it!  
P.S. 5 & 6 were gonna be one chapter, but I figured it'd be nice to separate the smut in case anyone wanted to skip the filth. So, skip chapter 5 if that's you!

“When will I see you again?” Castiel asked softly, looking down at his vessel's hands. Jimmy Novak had been one for perfection, fingernails trimmed and buffed with palms barring no calluses—when Castiel had become human those details vanished. He looked back at Dean, shoving his balled-up fists into his trench coats pockets, clarifying; “You and Sam, I mean.”

Dean shrugged, face pinched. “I dunno, Cas. If we need you, I’ll call you.”

“And Jack?” Castiel reminded dolefully.

“He can do whatever he wants.”

“Yes, well, I can’t.”

“You can’t what?” Dean asked.

“I can’t do this, Dean,” Castiel erupted, gesturing between them.

Dean reared back at his loudness. “Okay.”

Sighing loudly as he gathered his wits, Castiel cast a frustrated look over at Sam in the Impala and lowered his voice, “You say I’m only your friend if I let you go through with this suicidal plan, correct?”

Laughing harshly, Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair before running it down his face.

“I wish there could be another way, Cas. I do. But Billie, she showed me what needed to be done, the only way it could be done. So, I’m going to lock myself in the coffin and Sam will boat us out as far as he can and then I’m going to fucking stay down there for as long as possible. I know it’s going to suck. It’s stupid and suicidal and every other way to say fucked up you can think of. But Cas, it’s all I’ve got. ”

“I know you may think that way now, but If I’ve learned anything from my time on earth with you—there’s always another way,” His voice tapered off as a lump rose in his throat. “Dean, I told you that if there was a spark, a hope, then I had to try. And look what happened to Donatello, his mind rebuilt. So, please, please don’t go through with this.”

“Don’t try and convince me,” Dean almost begged.

“Sam only postponed the inevitable,” Castiel realized. “You never thought there could be another way.”

“That’s what I’m doing, Cas,” Dean set his jaw. “Putting this off, waiting until my will diminishes, trying to find alternatives; I’m only postponing the inevitable. Michael is going to take control of my body again, soon, if I don’t do this. I can feel him now, banging on the door in my mind, weakening me slowly and biding his time. I have one shot, Cas, and if you’re not with me, you’re against me. There is no other way.”

“I can’t accept that.” Castiel looked spitefully at the Impala again. “And I know Sam can’t either.”

“He can because he respects my choices.” Dean followed Castiel’s eyes to look fondly at his brother. “And he made a promise—if there’s absolutely no other way, then he’ll do what he couldn’t do then, let me go and put me in that box. And Sam knows that today is that day. We’ve exhausted every resource . . . we even got to see dad again. So, in the end, we’re both at peace with this and I don’t need you trying to change my mind.”

“He can play make-believe for now,” Castiel said unfalteringly. “But I can’t pretend I’m okay with this, Dean.”

“Then, this is goodbye,” Dean echoed Castiel’s forgotten statement.

Castiel pulled his hands out of his pockets to pick at a hangnail. “If that’s how it has to be.”

Dean simply pressed his lips together, holding them shut like he was trying not to say anything. Before Castiel could stop him, Dean started walking to the Impala where Sam was waiting. Then, without a backward glance, Dean climbed into the driver's side and drove off.


	2. she sits there so refined, and drinks herself half-blind

“Heya,” The voice startled him. “My name’s—” He didn’t care enough to learn.

Dean sighed, looking at the girl. She’s young, on the cusp of barely able to drink with starry eyes and gravity-defying stripper tits. She’s wearing a university T-shirt and painted-on jeans, long blond hair falling in waves over her shoulders. Settling his eyes on the drink in front of her, he barely contained his eye roll—bar bunnies, without fail, always ordered Long Islands. Her long beige coffin nails curled slowly around the glass, eyes hooded as she looked up at him through false lashes. He tried to figure her out.

Why, out of all the younger and more approachable guys at this bar, did she decide to go for him? Dean was gruff, older, and completely menacing looking as he drank his whiskey with scarred knuckles. Really, he was on the wrong side of forty. And he was obviously busy or trying to appear it, looking down at his phone and ignoring everyone who sat beside him.

But she just leaned closer, smelling like peppermint and chocolate. “What’s got you passing through our shitty city?"

Just the same salt and burn every ghost was—a cycle of getting tossed around, burning the bones, the ghost still joyriding, and finally finding a lock of hair or a baby tooth to finish the job. But he couldn’t exactly tell a civilian that, though, could he? Instead, he took out his fake badge, setting it on the bar between them, and tapping it. “I’m FBI."

That made her more intrigued. “Really? Is there some crazy serial-killer I need to watch out for?”

Dean took a swill of his drink. “Nah. I took care of it.”

She hooked her foot around his bar stool. “Well, do you want some company, Mulder?”

If Dean were ten years younger he would slide a hand onto her thigh and press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. But Dean was old enough to know better. He was also old enough to be this girl’s father. And that skeeved him out more than he was willing to admit. “Maybe next time, sweetheart. I’m still a little beat up from the case and just wanna drink.”

Clearly offended, she said, “Then you just lost your chance with the hottest girl in this bar.”

He snorted, picking up his fake ID and sliding it back into his pocket. “Oh yeah? Where is she?”

Dean was expecting the drink to the face, so he just sat there as she readied, aimed and was about to fire—but a hand shot out and stopped her mid-throw, causing the Long Island to slosh all over her. She shrieked, shirt soaked and sticky. Tossing him one last glare when he clearly didn’t rush to her aid, she stomped away back to her group of sorority girls. Dean looked over at his savior and smiled loosely.

“Hey, man.” His words sounded weak, but Castiel gladly returned the upturn of his lips.

“Hello, Dean.” It’s raspy and raunchy, Castiel leaning against the bar without his trench coat or suit jacket. He looked practically naked, his broad shoulders and tapered waist covered by only his button-down, which was rolled up at the sleeves to showcase his nice-looking tan forearms.

“We should probably leave. I think some of the frat boys are going to come over to defend Long Island’s honor.” He tipped his head toward the bundle of roid-raged college kids, watching as they began moseying over their way. Dean touched Castiel’s hand. “I mean, it’s not like I was jonesing for a fight, but knocking these preps back in their place might help blow off some steam if you’re down.”

Castiel shook his head. “As fun as being ganged up on by twenty power athletes sounds, I think we should head back to our motel.”

Our motel. It sounded intimate but Dean was still reeling over the way he blew up at Sam earlier to mind. It had been a while since they fought—Sam punching him when they were driving to drop him into the ocean, aside—he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had an honest to God argument. When he had the Mark? He shivered at the mere thought of the curse. Standing up from his barstool and clapping his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” He squeezed once before letting his hand fall away.

They made it out of the dive before the jocks could rumble them to death. Dean’s feet slid on the marble-ish gravel of the parking lot. Fuck. He was drunker than he realized. Finally making it to the Impala, he crashed his backside against the passenger door and dug through his pocket.

“Are you alright?” Castiel’s fingers brushed his wrist.

Pulling out his keys, he tossed them up in the air for the angel to catch.

“Seems like I had ten whiskeys too many.”

Dean coughed, head falling backward as he pressed his hands into his waistband. The air was too cold for his fingers and his pockets were too tight. He might’ve looked better in these form-fitting jeans he’d taken to wearing, but fuck if their pockets were always a bitch to shove things into. What was the point of pockets if they weren’t even usable? He chuckled to himself.

Any woman in his life would bat him over the head for complaining about men’s pockets being too tight when women usually don’t even get that much. Dean nearly busted a gasket laughing when his mom had to succumb to owning a handbag thanks to all her jeans having fake pockets. Mary Winchester was not a purse-toting woman—and she stated that explicitly while also shit-talking the feminist movement for making such leaps since she was last alive but also looking over the most crucial sign of equality: pockets.

Castiel jingled the keys, meeting Dean’s eyes cautiously. “Are you positive? I could just make you sober.”

“And waste all that time I spend trying to get wasted? No thanks,” Dean's words garbled slightly in his mouth, reaching behind him for the handle. Pulling it up, he leaned forward and used his body weight to open the passenger side door. Falling back, he only grazed the top of his head a little on the frame as he crashed into the seat. “I’m three sheets to the wind, Cas. Drive us to the motel. End of discussion.”

Thankfully, it was a short drive. Dean chose the closest bar he could, knowing he’d just camp out in the back of the Impala or walk back to the motel if he was brave enough to leave Baby at a shitty dive overnight. Two lefts and one right later, they were pulling into the seedy motel. It was even worse than Dean’s already low standards when choosing motels. The first night he stayed here, he woke up multiple times during the night from loud Spanish shouting and gunshots. He was going to hustle some money tonight to upgrade to the chain motel across the street but somehow drinking seemed like a better use of time. Maybe he dodged a bullet by not agitating those frat boys more than he did by rejecting their hottest fish-in-a-barrel—hindsight's a bitch.

Dean burped, pounding on his chest with the back of his fist and hauling himself out of the car. Waiting for Castiel to unlock the motel door, he sent a glance over to the impending doom of metal slippery stairs and was relieved he thought ahead and picked a single on the first level.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Dean made his way to the can. Not caring enough to close the door behind him, he unzipped, held himself, and groaned.

Castiel spoke from the bedroom, “When I asked Sam where you were and he said Oklahoma, I assumed you’d just come down here to get out of the bunker. But you hunted, too, right?”

“Salt'n'burn."

Shaking and tucking himself back in, he ran his hands under the sinks water for a couple of seconds before drying them on his pants. Seeing a glass on the countertop, he filled it with water. Walking back out of the bathroom, his mouth twitched at the sight of Castiel playing on his phone.

“Did you have any trouble?” Castiel asked.

“No more than usual,” Dean ended up saying.

It wasn’t really the truth. The hunt had made him sick. So sick he went out and tried to corrode his liver. So sick that getting his stomach pumped would be better than sitting, stone-cold sober, in his distraction-less motel room and just thinking. That was the worst part. Sure, he could live with a lot of things. But having that downtime afterward to just reflect? Some times his ruminating mind could conjure up worse things than forty years in hell could. But what was Castiel expecting him to say, anyway? Admit some unearthed truth about himself? He had to dig up an infant's casket. It wasn’t the end of the world and he surely wasn’t going to be sharing and caring with Dr. Phil over here. But it had sucked and he was messed up enough over it to get shit faced at the closest bar he could find.

“You know you shouldn’t hunt alone, no matter how skilled you are, Dean.”

“Is that why you picked me up?” Dean asked, face hard. “Or was Sam's _mother henning_ again?”

Castiel made a noncommittal sound.

“So, what’s this new case you got for me?” Dean changed the topic, sitting down on his too springy bed and taking a sip of the water.

“Aliens.” Castiel didn't spare him a glance.

“Aliens,” Dean parroted.

Castiel quirked his lip, shifting in his seat at the breakfast table. “White light, people being abducted, and now a few miracles are being done. Townsfolk say it's extraterrestrials. The evidence says it's angels. It doesn’t explain the livestock issue, but maybe it’s some demonic omens that arose when the angels showed up.”

“Or fairies,” Dean said, setting his empty glass on the nightstand. “Sam and I were in Indiana once and there were a bunch of nutjobs going on about aliens. Turns out it was just fairies.”

“So, Angels or fairies,” Castiel concluded.

“Can’t wait,” Dean sighed. “How far are we trekking it? I need to know if Baby needs a tune-up before we’re road tripping to Stonehenge.”

“Have you heard of Aurora, Texas?”

“No,” Dean shook his head.

“It’s in Wise County,” Castiel said. “About a three-hour drive from here.”

“Not the worst haul I’ve done,” Dean allowed.

“This town isn’t exactly new to the supernatural,” Castiel said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “In 1897, allegedly a UFO crashed nearby and the extraterrestrial pilot is buried at the local cemetery. It’s not exactly a tourist destination, but the entire town is themed around the conspiracy—the mayor had a UFO sculpture installed in the courthouse garden.”

Dean rolled his neck and groaned, the joints cracking and popping. “And to think I was hoping we’d get to skip the grave-digging portion of the hunt.”

“If it is an angel, we might have to kill it.”

“Hey,” Dean shrugged. “Angel’s are dicks. I got no problem slicing and dicing.”

“Whatever we do, we’ll have to deal with it independently. I went to Heaven’s gate before I came here. To see Dumah or Naomi. But they both refused to help us. I know it’d be in Heaven’s best interest if we didn’t kill the rogue angel—there are only so few of us left at this point. And neither of them want that blood on their hands,” Castiel added, “But don’t confuse their reluctance as some moral standpoint. I think they’re both gunning for positions of power.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot killing angels got us one step closer towards an army of ghosts, à la Doctor Who. And those were Cybermen. Wouldn’t that suck? Imagine adding robots to all the other supernatural shit we fight. Like Ted from Buffy. That episode is still hard to watch. Rest in Peace John Ritter. I’d pour one out but. . .” Dean groaned and cutting his ramble off, “I think I’m still drunk.”

“Sleep it off,” Castiel advised. “The case will still be here in the morning.”

Dean pulled off his boots, unlacing and setting them militantly next to his bed. “Yeah. You’re right. We’re driving to Texas tomorrow. I can’t wait for that strain on my back. At least I’ll get some kolaches, again. I had them the last time I went and still have daydreams.”

Castiel’s thumb tapped steadily on his phone. “Kolaches? That sounds Czech.”

“Welcome to America, land of the immigrants,” Dean laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. He unbuckled his belt and tossed it on a nearby clothes rack. He had his pants halfway down his thighs before he paused with a thought, “Have you heard of pigs in a blanket? A kolache is kinda like that. But with a bunch of different things inside. I had a pizza one once. It was awesome.”

Unexpectedly looking up from his phone, Castiel’s eyes met his bare skin. “I look forward to tasting that.”

Dean flushed, yanking his pants off and crawling under the thin bedsheet before either of them could blink. It didn’t help. He still felt exposed. His was skin burning under the cool cloth. Clearing his throat, he made a tactical move and turned on his side away from the hot burn of Castiel’s eyes on his laying body. But even as the rhythmic tapping of Castiel’s thumb returned to the screen of his phone, Dean still felt like he was being watched.

Turning back over, he twisted the lamp’s switch and shrouded them in darkness—only the light of Castiel’s phone kept them from utter tenebrosity.

“G’night, Cas,” Dean dared to say into the dark.

“Sleep well, Dean,” Castiel said in turn.


	3. no matter how they toss the dice, it had to be

Aurora, Texas had a population of just over two thousand residents.

After spending a week in Oklahoma City, the rundown aspect and absence of people were almost a slap to the face. Dean’s grip tightened around his steering wheel. The population wasn’t the only thing it lacked. After making the rounds and doing some speedy google-fu, motels were few and far between.

"There are only two choices," Castiel informed after a hilarious failure of voice-to-text with his phone's search engine. Dean nearly swerved out of the road it was so goddamn funny. “An overpriced mom-and-pop shop or a chain motel that serves continental breakfast.”

Dean debated internally, weighing comfort over the scant amount of money he had left, before settling on the overpriced one. It might be worth it to pick a place with good mattresses for a change. Even if he got his usual four hours last night, it wasn’t the bumpy road that made his neck throb with pain.

The cracked asphalt they rode into town contrasted deeply with the memory of last night's motel coarse carpet, thick and deep enough to swallow his bare feet in a chasm of yarn-ish texture. The smell of grease, embedded under his fingers after he changed the Impala’s oil contrasted with the pungent odor of lemon, seeping from every surface and spritzing into the air every time they moved in front of the freshener. The subtle chap to Castiel’s lips. The wind burned cheeks, flushed pink making him look pliant. It only occurred after they drove hours with the window down. And Dean wouldn’t let himself notice the wrinkles in Castiel’s trench coat, due to being cast across the room into a heap with their other clothes.

They started this morning, after drinking six goopy cups of coffees, not stopping once to drive straight to Texas. But even if they left only a little after sunrise, it was already blazing hot when they pull into the dinky town and even tinier motel. The road looked wet it was so hot, a mini-marriage that only made the sweat gathering at his brow collect faster. Dean completely ignored the god-awful décor—and the brazenly annoying sign proclaiming “All invited to Mayor Summers Birthday Fundraiser”—slouching straight to their air-conditioned room. He had picked a single again. Castiel didn’t need to sleep, the first floor only had singles, and thanks to him not hustling last night this was the most they could afford.

Dean wiped his neck, hand coming back damp. “Fuck. Who knew Texas so hot?”

Castiel took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves again. “And humid.”

“Well, it is by the Gulf,” Dean said. “But we’re in northern Texas and it’s still like chewing air.”

“Chewing air?” Castiel made a face. “That is a cursed comment.”

“Cursed?”

“Something Jack says.”

Dean snorted.

Jack had been learning a lot of new words from some Lebanon kids he started hanging out with. Normally, teenagers annoyed the shit out of him. But this was pretty entertaining. Dean can still remember kneeling over, face red, laughing until he was crying, when Jack started calling everything _Gucci_.

“So, can you tell me anything else about the missing people?” Dean asked, sitting on the side of the single bed. He hauled his duffle bag off of his shoulder and plopped it next to him, digging around for a new shirt. “I figured we’d head to the police station and then dig up E.T.’s grave tonight. So, in the meantime, we might as well research.”

“They’re all women."

Dean paused, thinking, “Huh. So, we should be looking for a horndog angel, then?”

Castiel frowned, “Sexual attraction is a rare thing for angels to experience. These women were all fairly young, as well. But I wouldn’t rule out the possibility. There are always exceptions.”

“Like Balthazar? Or Ishim?”

“And the dozens of other angels that created the first Nephilim.”

"Y'all celestials are just a hornucopia of sluts, huh?”

"Don't slut-shame heaven, Dean."

Dean laughed uproariously. He was_ definitely _stillhungover. A little cross-eyed, he said, "We gotta make that into a t-shirt!"

Castiel huffed an amused gust of air out of his nose, getting the conversation back on track, "There’s also the issue of livestock to take account of.”

“What about them?” Dean asked, pulling off his dusty damp t-shirt.

“The police have it listed as an unrelated case, but every time a woman is abducted—four or five animals turn up drained of blood,” Castiel said. “The police think it’s the work of a Satanic cult. I figured it was demonic omens. But each animal is reported to have been bled dry through a series of small circular incisions. Demons would have torn the heads off the body, not been so careful.”

“Maybe some vamps?” Dean suggested with a shrug.

“So, an angel working together with vampires?” Castiel sent him an incredulous look.

“Yeah, it’s suspicious. But we’ve seen weirder. Or, Hell, maybe it’s a powered-up vamp leftover from Michael,” Dean suggested. “The light could be from the grace in its blood or something. Maggie had said the apocalypse-world-hunters killed them all, but who knows if one got away, set up shop in Texas, and is slowly picking its way through beauty pageant winners and petting zoo animals?”

“It could be,” Castiel allowed.

Dean pulled a fresh white t-shirt over his head. “You wanna go scope out the graveyard or hit up the police station first?”

“The police station,” Castiel decided.

Instead of pulling on the usual FBI threads, Dean smirked and held up his bolo. Castiel groaned good-naturedly and held out his hand. Dean tossed Castiel the spare hat he’d been toting around since Dodge City. He pulled on his button-up shirt, his blazer, his boots, shiny belt buckle, and sat his own hat squarely on his head—Castiel put on his own flimsy hat and stared at Dean pitifully.

“Would you believe me if I said you looked good?” Dean swallowed and looked away.

Castiel huffed. “I look washed-up.”

“You look like a cowboy,” Dean said.

Sighing, Castiel straightened out his hat and played with the sides of his hair. It was adorable. He mumbled under his breath, “I look like a washed-up cowboy.”

“Remember—” Dean grinned, “—Just act like you're from Tombstone.”

Stuffing the fake IDs in their pockets, they strolled straight into the police department with no hassle. They met the Sheriff after a five-minute wait. He stood in his office, hands on his hips, giving them a funny once over. “You boys Rangers?”

“Of course, partner,” Castiel said awkwardly.

Dean tried not to laugh. “We’re implants. From Kansas. But being Texas Rangers has been both of our dreams since childhood.”

“Thanks to Norris, huh?” He shoved out his meaty hand for a shake, thick accent grating on Dean's ears. "We've never dealt with Rangers before, only really seen 'em on the big screen. I think it's nice our little town is getting this special treatment. Most cops hate y’all for coming in and stealing our work, I reckon, but you won’t find that nonsense here."

Dean nodded. “That’s good. Makes both our jobs easier.”

“That it does,” The sheriff agreed. “So, did we not give a bulky enough report?”

“We just want to cover all our bases,” Castiel said placatingly.

“I’m not gonna stop you. Just know you’re wasting your time,” The Sheriff shrugged, stuffing some tobacco into his lower lip. “Ask away.”

“We’re there any connections between the victims other than their gender?"

Shaking his head, "Nothing superficial. And personality-wise they were worlds different. The last one that went missing, though. Woo-ooh—that girl came looking for trouble.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asked with a furrowed brow.

“She had these huge tits,” The Sheriff laughed and mimed his hands in front of his chest. “I pulled her over as she was blowing in here in that muscle car I bet she stole from her boyfriend. She was wearing the skimpiest shirt I’ve ever seen. And it was white. Thank the Lord she’d been sweating, too!”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “So, you talked to her beforehand?”

“Just a couple minutes. She was really stuck up. Acted like she was so offended when she saw me sneaking a peek. She was the one flaunting ‘em! You expect me not to look?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Anyhow, I wasn’t that shocked when she was the next one missing.”

Dean looked away and frowned.

Before he left the bunker he had an interesting argument with Charlie that soured his mood entirely: “You’re like the hetero version of a flaming homosexual, dude. We get it, you like sex and women and beer and classic rock. Seriously, when your default conversation topic is about objectifying a woman—maybe you should reevaluate.”

He had to take a few deep breaths before strategically leaving the map room and retreating to the kitchen. Otherwise, he would’ve blown up on her. It wasn't Charlie’s fault she thought what she did of him. Dean had been raised to only sing his appreciation of women. It was encouraged, in fact. John slapping Dean on his shoulder each time he made a passing comment about a girlfriend and what they'd gotten up to.

She couldn't know about Dean’s affinity for blue-eyed boys. He held that so close to his chest because of John and even though the old bastard had been dead for over a decade, not counting the short stint of time they'd recently got together, he just wanted to please him. Hell, it took the original Charlie years before he told her. Still, even now, his stomach twisted as he remembered her scowl. She wasn't his original friend but her opinion still mattered to him. He could be known as a lady's man, but a misogynistic pig? Dean gritted his teeth.

And if, according to Charlie, Dean objectified women. . . what the fuck kind of next-level shit was this Sheriff doing?

Focusing back on the conversation, he asked, “What about the bright light in the report?”

“We ain’t exactly got any reliable witnesses,” The Sheriff said slowly. “I wouldn’t believe the girl, anyway. She’s usually too high to see anything but bright lights. Y’know the type? She only saw the last girl get taken, too. So, I ain’t taking her word for law. Even if the papers are.”

“I’m sure we’d still like to hear it from her,” Castiel clenched his fists around empty air.

“Go ahead,” The sheriff waved his hand. “She’s a whore, so I’m sure for the right price she’ll tell you anything.”

“We heard that after an abduction, some livestock is killed?” Dean changed the subject casually. He could tell Castiel was getting worked up.

The Sheriff snorted. “First the livestock is killed and then a girl gets abducted. It ain’t related. Whatever the papers are saying, about the aliens coming back to celebrate the girl's deaths—it’s all bullshit. And frankly, disrespectful to the families. Truth is, we’ve had this problem for years. But only now are people paying attention. Buncha hypocrites.”

Castiel asked. “You don’t believe in aliens?”

“Hell, son,” The sheriff laughed, slapping his hand on this thigh. “I’m sure only our older folk believe that nonsense. And that’s cause they got dementia.”

“You think it’s Satanists, then?” Dean bit his lip.

“That’s what I figure.” He spat some dark liquid into a styrofoam cup. "Either that or someone is in cahoots to get some city-slicking tourists into our podunk town: the last time we were in such a dry spell, a damn UFO came crashin' into a windmill. This town's got a way of sortin' itself out, fellas."

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

“Well, at least the bastard got one thing right; that was a waste of time.” Dean hopped into the Impala.

"We learned about our only witness," Castiel countered, then added, "But that man was a raging sexist dick."

Dean laughed full bodily. "Think we should hit up next of kin along with our solo-spectator?"

"We could split up," Castiel suggested half-heartedly.

"No thanks, Fred," Dean said. Then flushed. Ever since they got sucked into Scooby land, Dean's realized just how charming Fred was. Maybe his childhood crush on Daphne was a cover-up for his true crush on Fred? Probably shouldn't mention him around Castiel, in case of transference—not that he was transfer-y. Dean realized he'd been quiet for too long. Castiel's eyes were on him, a questioning tilt to his head. Dean cleared his throat, "After the graveyard, we'll go over to the street corner our witness is on. Check out the families. Then, get some goddamn food. I'm starving."

"Will I finally get to try those kolaches you were gushing about?" Castiel asked.

"Sure, buddy," Dean could tell his face was still red. "We'll do some grave robbing, too."

"What a luxurious life we lead," Castiel grinned his trademark gummy smile.

Dean's stomach filled to the brim with fluttering butterflies. Fuck. He was so gone.

He turned his attention back to the case. He couldn't get so roped into this thing with Castiel again. This unrequited crush. Dean was a middle-aged man but he was pinning after Castiel like some middle schooler. Puppy-love was like a sickness and Dean had been infected for around a decade. But he wouldn't let it get in the way this time. It nearly ruined everything before. Before Michael. And then the possession happened and everything had been wrong since.

He remembered fondly the weeks before the archangel when it was Dean, Sam, Castiel, and Jack. He wanted his toes in the sand, so badly. Now, with the growing stress between all of them—Jack was becoming soulless, Sam was depressed over his hunter friends dying, and Castiel was getting the kiss of death from snake charmers—he doubted anything remotely peaceful could be possible.

They learned the more in-depth history of the town at the cemetery: On April 17, 1897, a UFO crashed on a farm near Aurora, Texas. Allegedly, the UFO was said to have hit a windmill, resulting in its crash. The pilot, who was reported to be "not of this world", and a "Martian" according to a reported Army officer from nearby Fort Worth, did not survive the crash. He was buried "with Christian rites" at the Aurora Cemetery.

Dean rolled his eyes at the plaque. "Why in the Hell would they bury an alien with Christian rites?"

"Why would they go into impoverished countries and assimilate Christianity with natives that have no interest in the religion?" Castiel started walking into the cemetery. "Because White Anglo-Saxon Protestants are ridiculously self-centered."

"Hey, those are your people," Dean hip-checked him.

"I suppose," Castiel bowed his head a little. "I still find it hilariously absurd that they would bury an alien with Christian rites."

"You and me both, Casablanca."

They walk up to the unmarked grave they're going to be unearthing. It had a homemade headstone-stump at the front.

Castiel crossed his arms. "It's only 2 PM. Were we meant to be digging anything up?"

"Nah," Dean shook his head. "I just figured we'd just look around and get a lay of the land. I don't know how many times Sam and I have come to a graveyard at night and gotten totally lost in the dark."

Castiel hummed, pulling a sheet of paper with a stereotypical looking alien on the front and a moronic invitation to Aurora’s Mayor’s birthday—it was wedged on the Impala's windshield, shoved under her wiper whilst they were in the police station. Dean was going to crumple it up but Castiel had taken the paper and folded it up for his pocket. "If an alien was buried here, he surely wouldn't look like a little green man."

“At least last time I had to deal with this shit I had soulless Sam. That dude was more entertaining than HBO.” Dean reconsidered the comment and amended, “But he also left me abducted to go fuck some hairy-armpit granola.”

“Was her armpit hair that repulsive to you?” Castiel side-eyed him. “My vessel came with a lot of body hair.”

“This isn't gender studies, Cas.” Dean turned his head to hide his blush. Holy shit. The image of Castiel’s supposed body hair permeated in his mind. What exactly was Castiel implying? Dean tried not to think of following a happy trail down to—he sucked in a deep breath and relented on twisting his face back around. He didn't need Castiel to see his blush but it was strange to not look at someone when they were talking.

He froze when he saw the small smirk on Castiel’s face. “So, you admit it’s a gender thing?”

“I wax my own chest and back, buddy. I trim my balls. I’m just not into body hair.” But it felt like a lie. He’d totally be into body hair if it was on Castiel. And that thought made him squirm.

“Maybe you should teach me how to groom when we get back to the motel.”

Dean went bug-eyed but calmed down at the obvious teasing tone Castiel had used.

“I’ll trim yours if you trim mine?” Dean tried to joke back.

“You want to jump straight into the deep end?" Castiel smiled and shook his head, "I figure you’d want to start with helping me groom my chest.”

Dean couldn't tell if they were joking anymore. "I love the smell of hairy balls in the morning."

"Apocalypse Now," Castiel said automatically.

They had started up a game last November where Dean would ramble off a quote just to see how much Castiel had improved since his "I don't understand that reference" days. Hilariously, Castiel's pop culture knowledge had improved most by talking with Jack—the literal 2-year-old. Nevertheless, by this point, the game had evolved to if Dean made even the smallest reference Castiel called it out like the fuddy-duddy buzz kill he was. But Dean couldn't find it in him to be annoyed. It was actually adorable.

"I don't think Bill Kilgore said hairy balls," Dean said with a quirked lip.

"Must've been the director's cut," Castiel replied, causing him to chuckle.

After a few seconds of silence later, he asked, "Do you really think aliens really exist?"

“Of course." Castiel took his eyes off where they'd settled on the headstone to look at him. "Just like other worlds and dimensions exist, God must’ve created life elsewhere or given the right atmosphere to nurture it somewhere in the galaxy. I know it seems impossible to you, Dean. Human’s always thought they were the center of the universe. But I know that there is water on Mars. There are simple prokaryotes on other planets, as well. So, the next logical conclusion is that Chuck must’ve made other life forms. Unfortunately, angels were only permitted to know about this galaxy. If there is intelligent extraterrestrial life, then it’s surely outside of our solar system.”

“Huh,” And otherwise, Dean was speechless.

Castiel spoke again, “I bet one of the archangels would know.”

"Too bad Mikey still isn't here," Dean's lower face broke into a lopsided smile.

"Don't say that, even as a joke," Castiel glared.

Dean's throat clicked. "Alright, Cas."

"I didn't mean to be so harsh," Castiel said lowly. "But I'm just so happy that you're not—"

Dean interrupted bunglingly, "I appreciate that you're happy I'm me. I mean, I'm happy I'm me, too. But, honestly, if we're not laughing—I'd rather not talk about it."

Castiel reached his hand out to grab Dean's hand. "Whatever you want, Dean."

Dean saw something red in the corner of his eye. Turning, he looked at the edge of the cemetery. Past several pieces of cinder block and decrepit stones, Dean squinted at something bloody. Another girl? He reached his free hand behind him, it settling firmly on the handle of his .45 and tightening as he stepped closer, "Cas? Look over there—past the graves and towards the rubble. . ."

"Blood?" Castiel identified as soon as he spied the carnage. "What is it?"

"Either a small girl in a white dress or a baby goat." Dean let go of Castiel's palm and walked hastily over to the carcass.

"Ironically, both are called kids," Castiel said without much amusement.

Dean kneeled down, letting go of his gun. "It's a goat."

Castiel sighed. "Good. I was worried my joke would age badly."

"Is that the only reason you're relieved?"

"No, Dean," Castiel scoffed, leaning down to look at the goat.

Dean pushed the animal over, squinting at the batch of impressions on its chest. It could be a vampire bite. But, surprisingly, it looked closer to a changeling bite. He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture to send to Sam. They might be in an ongoing argument, but Dean was sure the kiddo would drop whatever he was doing to do some clutch research work. But Sam didn't text back right away. It was nearly 3 PM, maybe he was being a big dumb nerd and having his daily Ted Talk bing? And as the minutes went by, Dean's annoyance grew. That bitch left him on read.

"That bite looks familiar," Castiel glared at the puncture wounds. "Changeling or chupacabra or—I don't know, it's almost lamprey-like. It could be a Queller demon, but they suffocate their victims with their gooey, alkaloid spit. And changelings only feed on synovial fluid. This is clearly a blood-sucker of some sort. It could be a chupacabra, though. There are only six puncture wounds. That's less changeling and more chupacabra."

"Plus, its a goat. Kinda on the nose, but maybe we're just dealing with some easy chupacabras?"

"What about the bright light? And miracles?" Castiel looked frustrated. "Was that just human embroidery from our bystander?"

"Let's just adopt my powered-up-vampire theory onto the goat-suckers. Michael made special Djinns. He could've made our half-pint chupacabras all glowy and magically, too," Dean stood up, dusting off his pants, then noticing for the first time the buck-skull off to the side. It was bleached white. Dean squinted at it. "Hey, look at the goat skull. You reckon that's why our sheriff was so certain we got some Satanists running around? It is a sign of satanism or something, right?"

Castiel stood then, too. Looking at the skull and frowning. "Not necessarily. There's the Sigil of Baphomet, but that's more symbolism and less about sacrificing animals—which is considered morally reprehensible by the satanic church."

"I bet Rowena has one strapped to the hood of her car." Dean quirked his lip.

"It could be Pagan or Wiccan."

"So, we're adding witch to the long list of baddies?" Dean leaned against Castiel, bone-tired.

"It seems. And that would be more in line with mystic healing and bright white light."

"Well, let's go talk to our hooker and see if we can fill in some holes," Dean pushed himself off the angel's shoulder.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Dean breathed out a mouthful of dust as he pulled the Impala over onto the curb. It was getting into the afternoon now but the heat hadn't softened into the chilly evening sky as it would've in Kansas. The wind had started up, though. Dean associated the wind to rain and thunderstorms. But down here, Texas hadn't seen a rain cloud in months. With the Lone Star state, Dean knew it was a toss-up with the weather. Last time he'd been here it was non-stop rain. Now, however, as the wind-blown dust continued to lodge itself into his eyes and ears, prickling his eyes and coating every inch of his mouth with horrible grit—Dean figured they were lucky.

Texas was beautiful, anyway.

Dean looked past the eroded infrastructure and exhaled dreamily at the hogbacks in the distance.

That was the one thing John made sure they respected, other than their guns and weapons: the wilderness.

He believed that humans were stewards of the Earth, that they were put there to take care of the environment, animals, and such. Dean remembered an instance vividly when he couldn’t have been older than nine, he tossed some piece of garbage out the Impala’s rolled down window and John lead-footed their brakes right in the middle of the road, embarrassing the everloving shit out of Dean with backed up traffic and honking horns until he got out of the car and picked up the litter.

Foot slamming down onto the fractured blacktop, Dean pocketed his keys and waited for Castiel to round the rear.

"So, where's our Inara?" Dean's fingers twitched as he gazed down the sidewalk.

"Firefly."

"The Sheriff said this was her usual corner."

"Are we going to pay her?"

"If she asks."

His wallet was only forty dollars thick and he surmised they wouldn't accept credit at the whore bazaar—but they needed this statement.

As his eyes find a divot in the long stretch of buildings and structures, Dean scrunched his nose at the sight of a skinny alleyway. So, ironically, maybe the prostitute wasn't a proverbial streetwalker and instead stuck to dark alleys? He headed to the mouth of the gully, Castiel following a few measured steps behind, Dean stopped short when he saw a topless woman standing unbothered by a toppled over garbage can.

"Are you—" Dean paused and realized he didn't know her name. The Sheriff hadn't even mentioned it. Like she wasn't human to him.

"Yes, I am," She saved him the trouble. "And you're those pretty boy Rangers everyone's fanning themselves over."

"Yes, we are."

She ran a hand down to her exposed breast. "Are you here to arrest me for being a bad girl?"

Dean averted his eyes. "We're here about the murder you witnessed."

She grunted and hiked her t-shirt back up to cover herself. "I guess I can put the goods away, then."

Castiel blinked like he hadn't even realized she'd been partially naked. He tilted his head, looking her over. And Dean wondered what an angel that wasn’t like Castiel thought of sex work. Dean was amazed when it became obvious that being gay wasn't a one-way ticket to Hell. So, maybe the oldest profession also wasn't a blemish on humankind?

Nevertheless, Castiel surely wouldn't treat her any differently for what she was. Dean remembered when the angel first met Sam, shaking his hand like he was touching a beggar. The boy with the demon blood, he had murmured. Sam was something unusual and foul to him. But he was never an openly prejudiced bastard like Uriel. Castiel treated Sam fairly, even if he internally wished he could sanitize his vessel and grace after they'd touched.

"We'd really like to know more than you told the police," Castiel said, shrewd.

"I guess if you met my rate I could scrounge up something fresher than what I fed those cops," She smirked at them like they were something to devour.

Dean pulled out his two Jacksons. "Is that enough?"

She held her hand out, resting her elbow on the top of her other arm which was tucked across her body. "Johns pay first."

Dean pressed them into her palm. "We're not clients."

"Whatever you need to tell yourself, darling." She ran her long talons over the bill, tracing lips and the curly hair. "What do you want to know?"

Castiel asked, businesslike, "You told the local newspaper that you saw a white light when the last girl was abducted, correct?"

"That lady was bad news," She scoffed, leaning against the disgusting alley wall. There were sticky pieces of gum and ropey cum stains on the exposed brick. "Even I could tell you that. She had these expensive aviators. Big jugs that she wasn't self-conscious about. And an undercut. She was a real feminist, y'know? Or that type, anyway. I'd never met a woman so confident in something that wasn't sex. And she blew in here in that muscle car and had this domineering way about her. And instead of going somewhere uppity, she came right down and asked me how I was doing."

"So, she was a good person?" Dean summarized.

"She was bad news," The prostitute didn't relent. "She was tryin' to run off local business."

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked.

"The bitch had that corporate smell on her," She rubbed her nose as she said it.

"So that's what is this? The pissed-off rednecks run off the newcomer because she was gonna take their jobs?" Dean grimaced. "That's a running gag on fucking South Park. And it's stupid. Sure, mom-and-pop shops might go under but I guarantee it'll do more good than not for her to come in and Wolf of Wall Street everything."

"Listen, Mr. Capitalist, I don't care how you see it. We might be backward rednecks to you, but we care about our town. And if that means protecting it from the likes of her, then we'll do it," She nodded her head proudly, a determined scowl etched into her face. "But I can promise you that this wasn't some bout of civic duty. Something strange happened to the lady. And I'm . . . "

"You're what?"

"I'm worried," She gritted her teeth. "I'm worried that I might be next."

"And why would you say something like that?"

"Because all the girls that have been taken, they knew each other. And who else knew this lady but me?" She looked down. "The sheriff hasn't made the connection yet, but if you look past the tip of your nose it's obvious. The girls aren't chosen randomly. They're all related. And if the pattern continues as it has, then the next girl to go missing is going to be me."

"If they all knew each other, why'd the newcomer get abducted? That doesn't fit."

"She was green but she wasn't a total alien," The prostitute placed her hand on her hip and used her free one to pull out a package of cigarettes. "Her sister was taken a few days earlier. Sue used to run the hotel I heard you boys are staying at. Remarkable coincidence. Maybe you should remove the beam out of your own eye so you can see clearly to remove the speck out of your brother’s eye—but I'm sure you two are already on top of it, nothing can get past the two strong brooding Texas Rangers, right?"

Dean ignored the dig. "Okay, so now we know why. How about you tell us how she died?"

"She's not dead," The prostitute practically exploded, face taut and hand clenched around a BiC lighter. "There was a bright white light. And then she was gone. I wouldn't—I mean, listen. . . I was just here, minding my own business. She just had to come down here and act all noble. What kind of person actually care about how a whore feels? She just had to stick her nose where it didn't belong. And look at what happened."

"Is there anything else?"

The prostitute sighed and pinched her smoke between her overdrawn lips. "You wanna know why nobody's crying over her being missing?"

"Why?"

"This town's got a way of sortin' itself out, Rangers—and if it takes out the trash, we ain't gonna bitch."

And then she started giggling, feline teeth gleaming and smoke pouring out of her nose.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

"It's creepy, right?" Dean pulled into the diners parking lot. Lowering his voice, he repeated ominously, "The town will sort itself out" before throwing the Impala into park and throwing his hands up. "Damnit, that's the second time I've heard that today. The sheriff said the exact same thing—just as disturbingly. Reckon it's some kinda mind control thing? Like the town you and Sam took a little vacay in? We might be walking into a malt shop instead of a greasy diner."

Castiel shook his head. "It's less like a collective and more a protective authority."

"But the hooker didn't act like she was apart of it. She was afraid of whatever it was," Dean noted.

"Yes," Castiel picked at his thumbnail. "The prostitute and the sheriff aren't parts of the authority, but instead are the products of it."

"Okay," Dean accepted, still a tad lost.

Castiel blinked furiously—concluding, "It's like a child revering their parents."

"So what? We're dealing with a bunch of helicopter mommies?"

"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God." Castiel looked at him, grimacing. "I think we might be dealing with a Vanir."


	4. many a soldier shed his lifeblood on my blade

Jay's diner, also known as the "Kountry Kitchen" to tourist folk, had a fan in the right corner that clicked noisily with each blade turn. But even as it prattled on, the sound becoming as irritatingly grating as fingernails on a chalkboard, Dean didn't dare complain to the simple-natured waitress that took their orders with a wide smile and glistening cow eyes. It was hot in Aurora. Fry an egg on the sidewalk hot. Hardly able to move hot. There were a dozen flies, buzzing and pitter-pattering their little insect legs, clustered on the far window next to a jukebox that only played Dolly Parton on repeat. Everything blended together at one point: the clicking fan, the sizzling heat, the buzzing flies, and the final cords of 9 to 5.

Dean popped another bite of egg into his mouth. The greasy diner served breakfast 24/7, so he ordered himself some sirloin tips and a bunch of scrambled eggs. Castiel, per request, got a kolache platter. Dean watched in amazement as the angel shoved two of the pastries into each cheek, staring at him owlishly but still favoring a chipmunk more.

Sam's voice crackled through the speaker, "You think it's a Pagan God?"

"Like that fugly looking scarecrow we fought back in '05," Dean exclaimed excitingly.

Sam was 100% less enthusiastic. "I dunno, Dean."

"It makes sense," Dean persisted, haphazardly pressing his calf against Castiel's and believing it's the table leg. "We've got some female offerings. And, y'know, some sacrificial goats. A lot of the first immigrants in this part of Texas were from Czechia—which isn't exactly Scandinavia but who really gives a fuck about something that trivial?"

"Scandinavians and Czechs?" Sam said irritatingly.

"Listen, Sammy, these Vanir are known for their protection and prosperity. They keep their local towns safe from harm. I mean, Cas was definitely onto something here. The town sorts itself out? Fuck yes, it does. Now, I'm willing to look past some of the more extraneous details in order to kill this fucking thing. We've got over a dozen kidnapped girls. We don't want another."

"But why did the goat have six puncture wounds—like a front row of teeth? Isn't that a little suspicious to you? Vanir's usually have worshipers to deliver sacrifices. They don't munch on them and suck them dry. It's just not their MO."

Dean groaned. "We've literally been grasping at straws here. Let us bask for fifteen minutes, at least."

Sam huffed out an exasperated yet fond sigh. "Dean, I'm on your side. Become a basked Thanksgiving turkey for all I care. But you texted me a picture. I researched. And none of the lore matches what you're saying. I'd bet my left nut it's a chupacabra. . . "

"But not your right one, Lance Armstrong, so you can't be completely sold," Dean pointed out desperately.

Castiel swallowed his mouthful of kolaches. "Sam, I'm positive it's a guardian entity."

"Maybe your Vanir's abducting girls," Sam conceded. "But a different monster is feeding on the goats."

"Two monsters?" Dean snorted and then paused—he considered the likelihood. Holy shit.

"Two monsters," Sam reiterated.

"Are they symbiotic? Can two species of monsters even cohabitate the same hunting ground?" Castiel asked, curious.

"As long as they aren't eating the same main course," Sam decided. "I'll bet there are hundreds of monster communities that carefully coexistence."

"But why here? Why Aurora?" Dean asked. "I mean, I'd understand in like, Las Vegas or New York. But it just seems like too big of a coincidence that we'd have a Hellmouth of baddies on our hands in this little ol' Sunnydale. I can literally look out this diner window and see where the town begins and where it ends. That's not a lot of wiggle room for our creature features to hide out."

"Isn't it always the small towns? Less likely to draw attention," Sam said.

"But is it really? I feel like hunters are far more likely to notice a weird death in Granby's Green Acres."

"Do monsters usually follow logic?" Castiel asked. "They might understand dynamics and how to survive in a crowded biome, but I doubt they'd understand they're Bat-Signaling every hunter in the West."

"Nice reference," Dean held out his fist.

Castiel bumped it, looking down and flushing.

Dean licked his lips.

"Okay," Sam cleared his throat. "Now that I've done my part, I'll let you guys get back to. . . whatever it is you're doing."

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean said, picking up the phone and turning off the speaker. "I, uh, really appreciate you helping us out."

"Just because I'm mad at you doesn't mean I'm gonna let you and Cas go in blind," Sam stated.

"Yeah," Dean swelled with brotherly pride. And because he was so full of that pride, he swallowed the other egotistical part and said, "I just—I know I can be kinda an ass sometimes. I'm hot-headed and I don't listen to you when I should. But I want you to know that I'm sorry for what I said. You're, y'know, the best of us. And I shouldn't brush you off cause you're the youngest. And I should really treat you like the man you are."

Sam was quiet for a couple of seconds. "Okay, Dean. Thank you. Really."

"It's nothing," Dean said, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans. "I just, y'know, you're almost 37. I really should lay off."

"I know," Sam said, smirk palpable through the phone.

Dean shook his head, smiling a bit, "I gave you this long-winded, thought out, tear-jerking apology and that's what you say in return? I know? Who are you, Harrison Ford? Thanks for ruining the moment, Sasquatch."

"Fine, I'm sorry I even acknowledged your so-called apology in the first place," Sam said, but it was clear he was smiling as well.

Dean hung up and pushed his phone into his back pocket. Shaking his head fondly, he remembered how great it felt to have a normal conversation with his little brother.

When Dean was young and fresh-faced, John was the kind of dad you'd dream about having. He was strong, smart, and basically a superhero—but there was a downside to having superpowers that nobody told you about. Spiderman never whined about saving his neighborhood. Batman wanted to avenge his parent's death but he didn't lament when the Joker came along. Superman didn't whine about having to split time between Lois and saving Metropolis. They all did their jobs and dealt with the consequences of having little time to spend with those they love.

And for Dean and Sam, they only really had each other back then. John was Spiderman, Batman, and Superman: he never complained about being a hunter, never lamented when new monsters interfered with his search for the thing that killed Mary, and never whined about spending less and less time with them. So, really, John was untouchable. He was their hero. But he also became a villain in his own right.

Whilst the siblingly fighting wasn't a new thing, it still stung just as badly as when Sam was a prepubescent teenager who figured that if their dad wasn't around to get screamed at, he'd go after Dean instead. And kids were supposed to break hearts. They were selfish and mean. But that didn't mean they loved you any less. Dean learned that the hard way. Sam would yell at him until his voice went hoarse. And Dean knew he was just a substitute for their dad. Their "hero" of a dad that never stayed around. Dean could never really assigned the catchword "deadbeat" to John seriously, but that's what he was—and while it was nice to see him again, Dean was entirely grateful to not have him around anymore.

He was also grateful that Sam had forgiven him. . . Sorta-Kinda forgave him.

“I’m glad you worked things out with your brother.”

Dean fiddled with his fork, unable to meet Castiel’s weighted stare. “Me too.”

“And you seem in a better mood already,” Castiel commented.

“Damn it,” Dean let slip out. “I mean—” But he didn’t know how to bullshit himself out of this one, so he just sat there: utensil clenched in hand, hair matted to his dusty forehead, and an uncomfortable expression on his face.

Castiel tilted his head, “Are you okay, Dean?”

“Is it Dean complains o’clock?” Dean set the fork down, watching it clink against the sticky table. He choked around the too revealing words, “Sorry man. I’d rather focus on the case. We just got some new info. Me bitching about being upset that I’m not upset isn’t really in the work schedule.”

Castiel looked at him sympathetically, “I just want to help. And I want you to feel like you can trust me with anything, Dean.”

“Okay, fine. I think I’m too comfortable with my depression,” Dean set his jaw determinedly, hands only shaking a bit, but kept going before Castiel could interrupt his flow of honestly. “Every time something good happens, I feel like I’m finally excavating my brain out of its slump. And then it suddenly feels like something is missing. Or I guess, I get this longing for the familiar feeling of being secure with my own sadness. Does that make sense?”

Castiel nodded. “Of course. If you feel one way for years it must be a comfort.”

“But I don’t want to feel this way,” Dean finally met Castiel’s eyes.

“And that’s the first step towards healing,” Castiel said.

Dean felt his throat tighten, but he forced himself to kick back, cross his arms, and break the moment, “Okay, Dr. Phil, could you be any more life coach? The first step towards healing? I didn’t know you believed that self-help guru bullshit.”

Thankfully, Castiel knew his defense mechanisms. He saw Dean pull the same stunt with Sam only moments ago, using humor to push away his emotions. So he didn’t get offended by Dean’s sudden mood change. Instead, the angel just stared at him, blue eyes ever so wonderful yet frightening, and said, “You’re a good man. What you said to Sam was very wonderful. And I want you to know that I think very highly of you. So please, never put yourself down. You're so much more. You’re everything, Dean.”

Dean rubbed his front teeth with his tongue. He wondered if Castiel knew how much the words meant to him. "How nice—to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive."

"Vonnegut," Castiel said reflexively.

“Thank you, Cas.”

Castiel smiled. “Whatever you need, Dean.”

Something was bubbling in his chest and before he lost it, he reached his hand out and settled it on top of Castiel’s. “What if I need this?”

With wide eyes, Castiel breathlessly repeated, “Whatever you need.”

And so it goes . . .

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

“So, how were the kolaches?” Dean asked as they walked to the front desk.

Now that they knew their latest victim was related to the owner of the hotel they were staying at, it seemed like a no brainer to interview the next of kin. After doing some more lazy digging into the death reports, family history, and other similar case files, Dean figured that the Sheriff was definitely not giving them the full story. He never even mentioned that the latest woman abducted had family in town and he surely didn’t tell them that some of her family had been abducted not days before.

Dean kept switching between two possibilities; the sheriff was hiding shit on purpose or he was really just a clueless dumbass. And honestly, both seemed feasible.

He also found a more reliable pattern. They already knew that the animal mutilation happened after the kidnapping, but apparently, that pattern faulted a few weeks ago. In total there had been over a dozen abductions, but for a solid week no girls went missing and over 25 sheep and cattle were drained of blood. Same MO. This lead Dean to believe that one of the monsters was forced into starving for some unknown reason. And since they suspected the Vanir was the one who was taking girls, Dean couldn’t help but suspect the reason wasn’t something flimsy.

For a Pagan God to stop making sacrifices? Something interesting must’ve happened. Castiel suspected it felt threatened and stopped the festivities until the threat had passed, which was the same reason why there hadn’t been another missing girl in the time they'd been here but definitely had been a dead goat. Dean was also split on this: was it better to have made their presence known like they did and have no more girls be kidnapped or could they have been more stealthy, had another abduction, and gotten more clues from the fresh crime scene? Dean didn't even know what the Vanir did with the girls it took. Castiel suggested impregnation and Dean shivered, wishing he never asked.

“I liked them a great deal,” Castiel said. "The Ranchero flavor was my favorite."

“Good.” And Dean knew he should feel awkward but he ended up shyly smiling at Castiel. “You like savory and I like sweet.”

"Yes, I saw you steal both of my cream cheese ones," Castiel said casually. "Just like you eat all my food back home."

Dean held up his hands innocently, "I cook it. I eat it. Just because you called dibs doesn't mean shit under the Winchester roof."

"Yet you abide by the rules of shotgun," Castiel shook his head.

He blushed and stepped into the toasty heat of the reception office.

There was a feeble-looking old man behind the desk. Dean remembered him from checking in but otherwise gave him no passing thought. The guy had a cigar in his wrinkled hands, smoke clinging to him like a pungent perfume. It reminded him of the unsettling image of the hooker giggling. But otherwise, the old man wore an argyle sweater and a pair of pants that rested firmly above the waste, held there by suspenders and sheer determination. He had liver spots on his hands and these big coke bottle glasses on, hair as white as Newyork snow, and was balding on the very top.

“Hello,” Castiel spoke, pulling out his fake ID, “We’re Texas Rangers and—”

“Oh, I know who you boys are,” He said, brusque.

Castiel faltered at being interrupted. Opening his mouth to continue, the old man barrelled right over him.

“Gossip spreads faster in this town. It’s like the flu. And us old-timers die easily by the flu,” He finished gruffly.

Dean resisted the urge to smile. Old people were always great to just experience and listen to. They said the darndest things but Dean was always taught to respect them, they had far more life experience than him (or at least they did before he picked Sam up at Stanford—that's when the definition of life experience got a little dicey) and were undeniably wise. So, he just tipped his hat and said, “We got some questions to ask if you don't mind.”

The man looked at him, “It’s my birthday on Wednesday. I'll be ninety. Our very own Mayor shares the same birthday as me.”

“Well, happy early birthday to you both,” Dean wished. “I reckon ninety is just the beginning.”

“The beginning of the end, perhaps.” He narrowed his eyes at Dean. “Ask away.”

"Did you know the woman who used to run this hotel?" Dean asked.

"Sue was my daughter."

Castiel asked to confirm, "And she was abducted?"

"Along with twenty other misses," The man said, puffing on his cigar and looking wistfully out the front window. "Before her, it was big mouth Margaret that owned the Winn-Dixie down the way. Then it was that lesbian couple—the small one with the long pink fingernails went first, then the one with the short hair that wore a lot of flannel went next. Then it was Tiffany, who used to be Tim. And I could keep going. But the sheriff doesn't want to hear the blatherings of an old man. And surely the Mayor would make me the first man on the list if I kept pestering."

Dean frowned. "The sheriff said none of the women were comparable."

"Oh, they were very alike," He said sharply. "They all had minds for themselves. They didn't let anyone talk over them. They didn't go along with the town. And the town has its ways of sortin' things out; Things that don't belong. Things that won't submit to it. Things that go against the grain. Women. Women, Rangers, the town likes to chew them up and make them pay for having minds of their own—it happened to my own wife years ago and it's happening again now."

"So, it's a sexist thing?" Dean asked. This wasn't lining up with their Vanir theory.

"Whatever you wanna call it," The old man sighed. "But I knew my Sue was going to be taken."

"How?"

"The night before she was taken, she'd turned down the sheriff." He blew out more smoke. "That was her death warrant."

Castiel's brow puckered. "But why would the town care if she simply thwarted an unwanted proposition?"

"The town answers to those in control." He coughed, leaning over and spitting phlegm into a wastebasket by his feet.

"Isn't the town in control?"

"The town is a metaphor, boy," The old man finally snapped. "The real bastard is Mayor Summers."

Castiel and Dean both frowned. "What?" They said in tandem.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Dean knew the only way to kill a Vanir was to kill the thing they were tethered too. Last time it was an apple tree, meaning they should go looking for an orchard. Or an effigy. But after a quick search in the phonebook and more google-fu, they found nothing. Apparently, apples don’t grow very well in Texas. Dean gritted his teeth. Maybe it wasn’t a pagan god after all? Dean clung onto the fact that they still had the effigy. But where in the fuck could a that be in a town as big as a stretch of country road? There were a few statues; Richard Andrews, Davy Crockett, and Stephen Fuller Austin. But they were all busts—no gore, no hoodoo symboling, no hex bags, or no EMF. They were clean. Dean, frustrated with their lack of progress, stared up at the high sun.

The touch of sunlight on Dean's face, softer than the kisses Mary used to press against his chubby freckled cheeks, was just as blinding as those memories had become. With the cheery daytime adhering to everything it touched, no shadows anywhere during high noon, the rays felt heavily, like an actual weight was being pressed down on his skin.

Castiel was glaring down at Davy Crockett's marker, disappointed and pretty. Very pretty. His teeth stayed hidden but plush lips stretch astray.

Butterflies rose in the pit of Dean's stomach and he couldn't look away. How had he lived before meeting Castiel? In moments like these, nothing came to mind. Once Castiel had meant nothing to him. Once Dean wasn't even aware of the angel's existence. Now, Castiel was one of the only things in his mind. It was strange how a person could mean nothing but in a matter of hours, days, weeks, months they could mean the world.

Staring at Castiel, as cantankerous and grumpy and beautiful as ever, everything felt complete. Dean knew he had a rough exterior. He was hard to love. He knew Sam only stayed around because they were brothers—because they were raised with the notion that you didn't quit your family. There were some days where Dean was happy, stifled giggles pressed against his hand and scattered the affection he gave voluntarily and then involuntarily begged for. He was goofy and cheery, whistling while he fried up eggs in the kitchen or humming along to Metallica while he pottered under Baby's hood. But there were other days where there was nothing he wanted to do more than curl under his blankets, be quiet and lie in bed. He wanted to press his face into his pillow or mattress and welcome the indentation and that was all. Castiel probably knew how fucked up he was, which was mortifying in its own right, so all Dean wanted to do was shout don't give up on me.

Castiel, like he had an epiphany, looked up from the plaque and said, “What about that obnoxious UFO statue at the capitol building?”

“Huh,” Dean rubbed his chin, “Maybe. Besides, the Mayor is suss."

And so, down the yellow brick road, they set off to see the mayor. Back behind the wheel, leather creaking under Dean's knees, the Impala fluttered on the road, roaring like a beast as she tore down the blacktop. They pulled into the parking lot, tires squealing and leaving a mark as Dean made a hasty turn to park them.

The courthouse was huge and white, with flowers and columns and a huge UFO statue sitting squarely in the front.

"Dean, look." Castiel was grimacing, pointing to a streak of coagulated blood by the base. "Something happened here."

"Sacrifice?" Dean made a face.

"Most likely," Castiel said, stretching down to pick up a votive knife hidden in the tall grass. "Most definitely."

Dean pinched his nose. "Great. So the Mayor is now suspect numero uno?"

Castiel ran his thumb along the length of the dagger, cleaning off the gore to reveal non-English words. "This doesn't look like Greek or Latin. It looks Avestan—which should be impossible since there was no native script associated with the spoken language—but this is clearly an approximation with a modern alphabet. Avestan is a holy language, Dean. Hardly anyone speaks it today. It's considered dead by most."

"And dead holy languages hold the most power," Dean said, channeling his best Sam.

"I'll try to translate what it says," Castiel cleared his throat, "Dim vō nāiiaiieiti. She lets you lead her. Vō vatāmi. I understand you. θβā rāmaiiemi. I let you rest."

"She lets you lead her. I understand you. I let you rest," Dean repeated in confusion.

"That's a summoning ritual," Castiel tucked the knife into his waistband. "He must need a powerful incantation for the Vanir if he's even transcribing it onto his weapons."

Dean threw his thumb over his shoulder. "Let's go meet the Mayor of the Shire, then."

Walking into the tiny building, Dean actually shuddered at the pillowy ankle-deep carpeting and tangerine walls. The joint didn't look like it'd been renovated since the '80s. And unlike the cutesy feel the retro aesthetic had back in Oklahoma, this was just tacky. There were several chairs along the far wall, a huge mahogany bureau with a shot off desk sat in front of two imposing doors.

"Can I help you?"

The secretary, she looked kinda like a stressed-out Winona Ryder, peak losing Will Byers, looked up at them with a suspecting and impatient grimace—like, “let's see what tail these Yankees are gonna come up with to speak to the Mayor”. . . Dean put on his most charming grin, leaning against her desk.

"Yeah, we're here to see Mayor Summers."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No honey," Dean broadened his smile, dimpling handsomely. "But he'll wanna see us."

She actually seemed impressed by his audaciousness. "Names?"

"Tell him we're the Rangers everyone in this town's gossiping about," Castiel cut in flatly.

Piqued, she clicked the intercom. "Mayor Summers? We got some Texas Rangers here to see you."

"Send 'em in, Joyce." The voice was tiny coming from the little speaker.

She looked at them expectantly.

When they didn't move she sighed, "He said to go in. Go."

Dean shuffled awkwardly, tipping his head and going behind the desk and opening the huge doors.

"Joyce? Summers?" Dean leaned over to grumble into Castiel's ear.

Castiel squinted his eyes. "How peculiar."

Walking down the long hallway, Dean braced himself for the worst; but none of the lights were on. Instead, all the brightness came from natural light. The room was round, like the oval office, but there was a windowed section behind the main desk that was cut out into three angled sections, like a bay window in a cutesy little cabin. The glass was stained darker, casting an oblong shadow over only the hugged backed swivel seat the Mayor was currently sitting in. He looked up from whatever he was doing when they came in, shutting the door behind them, and only his reflective eyes were visible.

"You're the rangers?" The Mayor asked, leaning back in his swirly chair.

"You're the Mayor?" Dean asked back.

“Turn on the lights, would you?”

Dean groped his hand behind him on the wall, eventually finding the switch. Light explodes from the ceiling, too much for a few seconds before evening out. In the newly shed light, Dean could see brown eyes, brown teeth, brown hair, and extremely white papery skin.

“Isn’t that better,” The Mayor sighed, folding his arms in his lap. “Now, what can I do for you fine rangers?”

Dean figured they didn’t have anything to lose. “We’re hunters.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Fear is the most common response,” Castiel said.

“Common, eh?” The Mayor tilted his head, scanning his eyes over them thoughtfully. “So, what do two experienced hunters want from little old me? We got a chupacabra problem?”

“You know about the supernatural, then,” Dean established.

The Mayor sighed, “There’s a UFO in my courtyard.”

Dean didn’t know what to say to that.

Castiel picked up the slack, mouth tightening, “Yes, about that—We’re very curious about all the missing cases you’ve had in your town. We know it all traces back to you. We found very substantial evidence that you’re the one pulling the strings and making the sacrifices. Along with blood on your precious UFO statue. So, please, explain, Mayor Summers.”

"Is this the part where I monologue?" He asked particularly.

"We usually play it by ear," Dean said.

The Mayor simpered. “Did either of you ever order magazines when you were younger?”

Neither of them answered; Castiel was an angel who’d only got into magazines when Patience decided to canvas them for her senior trip and Dean never had a stable home address when he was younger to order anything by mail. Besides, what kind of magazine would John have let them order? Better Homes and guardrails?

When it was clear they weren't going to entertain him beyond lending a listening ear, he continued, “Well, when I was twelve, my mom subscribed to Magigram.”

If Dean could’ve stabbed himself in the throat with a pencil, full Rocknrolla style, he would’ve.

“Magigram?” Castiel singled the word out with a questioning tilt to his mouth.

“It’s a quarterly. When we went to Truman, the entire nerdom obsessed over them. All I know is that Sam nicked one off a fellow dweeb and wore the pages white from flipping through them so many times,” Dean said, seeing the Mayor in a whole new light. “So, does this tangent have a purpose or are you just being annoying for annoyance's sake?”

The Mayor’s lips thinned. “I think you’re leaving out the biggest clue to solving your mystery, Scooby-Doo.”

“And that is?”

“It was a magic magazine.”

“Oh yeah,” Dean remembered suddenly, things flooding back he hadn’t thought about in over twenty years, “That’s why dad almost kicked my ass when he saw little baby Sammy geeking out over rabbit stuffed hats and unending scarfs. He thought it’d be a gateway into actual magic. . .” He trailed off, eyes snapping up to meet Mayor Summer’s expecting expression, “. . . And I guess he was right.”

“I wasn’t born with talent, unfortunately. Maybe if I had been, I would’ve discovered my passion for the mystic far before the age of sixteen. But being naturally gifted isn’t the only way for you to gain access to witchcraft, is it?”

“You made a demon deal, didn’t you?”

The Mayor's eye twitched. "Originally. With some bitch named Lilith. Have you heard of her?"

Sudden chill bumps broke out on Dean's skin. He remained calm, though. "Of course. Actually, I heard she only messed with big timers. You a big timer, Dorkus Maximus?"

"I don't know why she picked me. But she did. We kissed. And then everything was magic. Ten years later, right before my time is up, she died. I was free of the contract. And I lost the magic," The Mayor bit his lip, eyeing both of them, "The withdrawal was horrific. I stooped very low during those weeks. Sincerely, gentlemen, I wouldn't suggest cold-turkey to _anyone_. But then, thanks to that stooping, I heard something very interesting from the lower level demons. Black-eyed bitches are the only ones with the power to grant others witchcraft."

Castiel nodded, "A number of creatures can do so, but only a seldom few use white magic."

"Who cares about white or black? Dark or light? I just wanted power," The mayor said, "It didn't matter where I got it."

"That yearning for power motivated you to begin offering sacrifices?" Castiel speculated.

"It's a win-win deal here, boys. We stir up some rumors for potential vacationists _and_ I reap all the benefits." 

"And you then you kill innocent girls. . ."

"Win-win-win," The Mayor said, steepling his hands. "Naturally, I can't lose here."

So, apparently, the Mayor was trying to bring tourists to the town. Alien related happenings were the product of an overzealous government. They just wanted more people to come into their town. The business was drying up. Etcetera. So, the Vanir wasn't choosing victims, the Mayor was picking and choosing to sacrifice them to it. And since, unfortunately, the bastard was a sexist douchebag, all the sacrifices were head-strong women.

Castiel's brows knitted in apparent disgust. "On the contrary, you're about to lose."

"Sure. I'm riveted to watch that unfold," He smirked at them. And when nothing exciting happened in the following thirty seconds, the Mayor rolled his eyes and said in a self-satisfied voice, "Now, I would love to keep you two pretty boys and sacrifice you. . . seriously, you're both so damn good-looking. It's damn distracting. . . but yes, y'all are just that; _boys_. And Yeska has a type. "

Dean crossed his arms. "How're you expecting this to end?"

"You'll walk out of here and leave me to my own business," The Mayor said easily.

Dean chuckled, "Yeah, that ain't gonna happen, man-witch."

"We prefer wizard or warlock."

"Shoot me, now," Dean grunted.

Castiel cut in, "We aren't going to let you kill more innocent women."

The mayor pressed a button under his desk, causing three tall imposing men with guns to step out of the adjoining door. It was so Austin Powers that Dean had to repress spontaneous giggles. "I hired extra muscle for this very reason. You hunters always burst in unprepared. I know you left your weapons in your car. We have a metal detector. And even if you somehow manage to defeat my bodyguards, I'm a very powerful warlock."

And to prove his point, he made all the lights burst out of the room: sparks and shards of glass flying on them all.

The hairbrained secretary from reception ran in. "Mayor Summers! The electricity bill! Not again!"

After a few seconds of continuous darkness, the mayor said, "Probably should've thought that through more."

Dean rolled his eyes. If this was the measly evil they were going to be fighting against, he had no doubt they would take these bumbling idiots down. Too bad the Mayor was right in one respect, they had left the witch killing bullets in Baby's trunk along with the rest of their weapons.

The secretary huffed—Dean was only able to see her due to the scanty light coming from the far window—turning and walking out with tense shoulders.

"She has to put up with me," The mayor said with a fond smile, then he looked back at them ferociously, "And I'll put up with you."

"What does that even mean?" Castiel asked openly.

Dean said immaturely, "That his only trick is a light show and since he can't fight himself he'll command his henchmen to do the dirty work."

The mayor's mouth tweaked. "You wanna test that, boy?"

"Your poker face isn't half as good as you think it is," Dean said back.

"Sir, you're next appointment is here," The secretary's voice crackled through the speaker.

"Time for you gentlemen to leave," The mayor spoke, fists clenching around nothing.

Dean thought of something. If the mayor was that eager for them to leave. . . 

"Okay," Dean said, feeling Castiel jolt beside him. "Let's go."

It was so dark in the room. They walked toward the exit. Dean looked back, seeing that the mayor had already turned his attention off them. The door in front of then started to creak. In a fit of ingenious, Dean pulled them into the adjacent closet. Castiel almost shouted but Dean slapped his hand over the angel's mouth. Closing the door behind them, Dean grinned at a wide-eyed Castiel.

He susurrated, "Buddy, calm down. We're gonna eavesdrop."

And then, almost instantaneously, they learned of the true evil.

Dean almost gasped out loud when he heard her familiar voice.

"I knew I was next," She garbled, clearly drugged.

Castiel gripped his hand, just as upset.

The mayor chanted while slitting the prostitute's throat—the sound gushy and wretched, “Yeska, of razor eyes and stone heart, take this offering.”

Dean clamped his hand over his own mouth. Fighting the urge to scream. Castiel wrapped his arm around Dean’s body. A bright light, almost ethereal, flooded under the door and the sound of hissing erupted from a liverish throat. Then, as fast as it had appeared, the outer room went quiet and breathless.

Some shuffling sounds later, two men start speaking.

“Good thing we got a cleaning lady,” His voice was muffled.

The other man snort-laughed. “Dude, that’s fucked.”

It was quiet again.

It felt like hours later, but the outside door finally creaked open and a few pairs of footsteps went out. Dean, with all his mustered courage, cracked the closet door open, peeping out. He nearly gagged at the sight. In the middle of the room, on top of a cherry red rug, laid their prostitute friend from earlier. She was mutilated horribly. Her tongue was cut from her mouth and was protruding from her left eye socket. Her missing eye was stuck in her exposed belly button. Dean couldn’t stand looking at her for long, flashing back to Hell like he hadn’t done in years. Oh God, the tongue and eye weren’t even the worst part, just the most instantly visceral.

“Don’t look, Cas,” Dean managed to flounder out.

Castiel, who was millions of years old, had seen far worst things. But he stared into Dean’s frantic eyes and nodded. “I won’t. Let’s get out of here before it comes back.”

They escaped, barely. Having to jump back into the closet when they hear footsteps approach the door, but then cut away in the other direction. Making it outside, Dean almost sprinted for his Baby.

Dean slumped down in the Impala's seat, hating himself, "Fuck. She was right. She was next. We coulda. . . I dunno. Fuck."

Castiel was confused, breathing heavily. "Yeska? She's no deity or God I remember."

They called Sam.

"That's because she's not a deity or a God—Yeska is a Davric. And they don't protect or serve humans—well unless the humans make a sacrifice. Kinda like a Vanir, in that respect. Davric's eat live sacrifices, generally girls. They grant huge power to the person that offers a sacrifice. And depending on how many girls are sacrificed, the power is greater."

"Well, fuck. The mayor is going to get a lot of power. He's done more than a dozen girls."

Dean heard the flipping pages of a book. Sam said, "He'll get the power on his fiftieth birthday."

"Thanks, Sam."

Dean hung up and turned to Castiel. "I know when the mayors birthday is."

"How?" Castiel asks.

"The old man, he said they shared a birthday—the mayor is turning fifty on Wednesday."

"That's tomorrow."

"And, if you still got that alien flyer from earlier, it's got an invitation on the back."

“It’s in my pocket,” Castiel said. “In my trench coat.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, glad he was able too, “The one time you aren’t wearing it, Cas. Damn you’ve got bad timing.”


	5. i know and you know what i've been dreaming of, don't you baby?

Back at the motel, Castiel pulled the flyer out of his trench coat pocket.

"This is what you get for not wearing it all the time," Dean joked.

Castiel glared at him, reading off the invite, "You’re formally invited to Mayor Summer’s birthday bash this Wednesday at 6 AM—” Castiel abruptly stopped. “We can’t go. It’s too early.”

“You’re too early,” Dean said teasingly, snatching the paper from Castiel's hand and reading, “In the courtyard. Underneath the ET attraction. Blah blah blah. Cas, good news, no metal detectors.”

Castiel rubbed his forehead. “Yes. But at 6 AM. No.”

“Do I need to bribe you or something?”

“Okay,” Castiel said seriously.

“Oh, uh,” Dean was nearly speechless. “What do you, um, want?”

“How about a kiss?”

It sounded so easy and simple coming out of Castiel’s mouth.

“Oh, uh,” Dean felt like he was on autopilot. “Okay.”

Castiel stepped closer to him. Dean couldn’t believe this was happening. This was happening. Right now. This was happening. It was happening, right? Castiel was only an inch away. But Dean’s stomach still knotted.

“Is this really happening?” Dean asked into the curve of Castiel’s neck, bathing in his body heat and smell—he felt and smelled like the tingling air after a cold night after a lightning storm. Like electricity. Like everything powerful in angelic grace. It was intoxicating on one level, like the heady feeling Dean got after shooting a couple of shots. But otherwise, it was nothing compared to the real sparks: Castiel brushing his lips across Dean's forehead.

“Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Dean said shakily, looking into Castiel’s wonder yet frightening blue eyes.

Castiel surged forward.

And then they were kissing.

Dean pulled back to breathe, “I didn’t realize.”

“I know,” Castiel soothed him, their breaths lingering together. “It’s okay.”

Was it manly to swoon? Hell, no one was here to see. Why the fuck should he worry about his machismo now? He was about to get fucked, legs bent, on his back, screaming in bliss—Dean leaned back in. God, if all Castiel wanted was just a kiss, Dean might die. He felt full, bursting with static and want and everything that was screaming for Castiel to push him down onto the motel bed and dick him into the sheets and mattress and make him wish they were back at the bunker to experience this pleasure on his memory foam for it to become absolute.

And when Dean looked back into Castiel's gleaming eyes, licking the imaginary come off his lips, swearing he could taste the spunk and wanting to savor every bit, Castiel leaned forward. His hot breath in Dean's ear and he was humming Stairway to Heaven. It was sultry and perfect. Dean's lips, the ones that too relaxed to pull into a full grin, sneaked into a lazy smile.

How he wanted to be able to wake up next to Castiel in the mornings, kissing his soft lips, holding him tight and pulling the blankets closer around them as Dean goes back to sleep in his arms. He wondered if this passion was killing Castiel like it was killing him? If the feelings were engulfing Castiel wholly and leaving him wanting and craving more even though there was barely anything given, to begin with. His heart was so worn.

Castiel returned the look. He smiled like he was at ease, that big wide gummy grin that made him so handsome.

More arousal filled Dean, like a cup of water overflowing.

The thought of them fucking resurfaced in his mind. Propelling against each other. Feeling each other. Never making the exact moves twice. Already Dean's brain was ablaze, Castiel was his angel, his angel with fingertips of fire. He imagined Castiel entering him again and again and again.

Dean stumbled back, fingers shaking as he undid his shirt.

Castiel reached out to stop him, "Wait."

"I swear to God." Dean's erection was penned tortuously in his pants.

"I want a show," Castiel said doggedly, gesturing to Dean's disregarded cowboy hat sitting on the dining table. "Please."

"A show?" Dean wasn't comprehending the words. They didn't fit together in his mind.

Castiel crossed his arms, kissing Dean on the mouth in fond exasperation before sitting rod straight on the bed, belt unbuckled along with his top button. "Put on your boots. Put on your hat. Put on your ugly bolo, too. I want a show." He moved one hand down to squeeze his thigh, blinking his lust-filled eyes as he took in Dean's anticipating body and expression, both as tight as a coil.

"Why, Castiel, you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?" Dean breathed out, a mixture of uncertainty and lasciviousness.

"The Graduate," Castiel stated, watching him and his abashed eye fluttering. "Don't be embarrassed, Dean."

"This is the first time someone has wanted me to put on more clothes," He said the hackneyed phrase as he fumbled around his bolo, fingers trembling.

Musicless, it was awkward.

Dean stood at the foot of the bed, shuffling back and forth, fully clothed.

Castiel just watched, leaning back in his chair, eyes gleaming. "Want me to whistle a tune?"

Relaxing a bit, Dean snorted, "No thanks, Cas."

"Dean, you know I respect you entirely. So, if you don't want to do this, I won't press you. . ."

Dean, rejuvenated by Castiel sweet words, stood up straighter. "No, you know what, I'm gonna fucking Magic Mike you _so_ hard—"

Castiel's sharp laughter cut him off.

Then they were just grinning at each other. 

"I have Spotify on my phone," Castiel offered.

"You do?"

"Jack set it up."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Um, put on Marvin Gaye."

It took a few seconds for Castiel to pull up a song. Long enough for Dean to make up a game plan. Like those ESPN announcers in the '90s, using their finger to make yellow lines, X's, and circles on the football field. Even though it was a box TV and all that shit was added in post. The sports fans were none the wiser. And this was a sure-fire way of getting a touchdown. He hooked his thumbs in his front belt loops, pigeon-toeing his feet, and looking up at Castiel from under the brim of his hat. When Castiel finally pressed play, Let's Get It On pouring out of the shitty speakers, Dean knew exactly what he was going to do. 

First, while maintaining eye contact, he started moving his hips. 

Then, he slowly undid his tie. His shirt buttons were next. He fumbled a little bit on the last couple, but Castiel's reassuring face kept him going. Finally shirtless, hips moving in these little gyrating circles, Dean stepped towards Castiel purposefully. Hopping on Castiel's lap, fingers immediately digging into his thighs, he starting pressing down on Castiel's already prominent erection. Feeling it through the fabric and denim of both their pants, he could still tell it was fucking big. Bigger than Dean's. But he didn't feel envious. No. Because even if he didn't measure up, he was still going to experience the stretch of the cock inside him. And if that didn't make up for anything else, Dean surely wouldn't be an easy person to please.

He continued to press down, gyrating, watching Castiel's head tip back to expose his flushed neck. 

By this point, he was practically bouncing on the dick, covered doubly by jeans. 

Pulling away, Dean stood on wobbly legs. Castiel tilted his head back up, eyes glassy.

He slowly unfastened and unzipped his pants, pushing them down slowly over his tighs and kicking them off into the corner of the room as they got caught at his ankles. Now, in just his underwear and a cowboy hat, Dean began dancing again. Let's Get It On repeated for the fourth time. And Dean threw his hands up, bringing them down to touch his body, rubbing his chest and brushing his nipples. He caresses his shoulders, holding tightly, and letting his fingers trail over his ribs. Castiel watched, stoically, unmoving from his spot. The only sign that he wasn't uninterested was the huge bulge in his pants, visible from halfway across the room.

With the same grace as a newborn fawn, Dean fell back on the bed. He lifted his butt and tried to shuck off his underwear. It tangled around his ankles. But he was too gone to care.

And with nothing else in the way besides his own apprehensions and insecurities, Dean got a finger inside his hole. Spit would have to do tonight. It’d hurt like a bitch. Dean would be walking funny tomorrow. But somehow, he couldn't find it in him to care. Two fingers in. Preparing himself. Castiel just watching from the dining table seat was actually the sexiest thing he’d ever done. Dean whined as he brushed his prostate.

Three fingers. He shouldn’t rush this. But he needed Castiel now.

He’s humping down on his pointer, middle, and ring fingers: sheet getting caught underneath him. Fuck, he didn't give a shit. The hat falls off his head then, and Dean gasped as he felt the bottom of the bed dip down.

“Is it my turn, lover?”

Dean spread his legs wide, cheeks flushed. “Yes.”

But Castiel doesn’t immediately sink his dick in. He takes his own three fingers and replaces Dean’s sloppy ones. “How’s that?”

“More,” Dean said brattily.

Castiel hummed, adding a fourth blunt finger. It was excruciating.

But Dean just exhaled greedily. “More.”

“You want my whole fist?”

Dean shook his head, “Want your cock.”

“Really?” Castiel asked curiously. “Would that feel better than my four fingers?”

“Yes. Please.”

Castiel pulled out his fingers. “Let me get myself wet.”

Dean looked down and almost passed out. Castiel’s dick was out now, huge and angry. It had a shiny red tip. Uncircumcised. Dean remembered quite vividly when he was remade by Castiel all those years ago: he’d went to Hell circumcised but came back intact. He had to have an awkward conversation with the confused angel that he actually liked the mutilation to his penis. Dean wondered if Jimmy’s cock had been circumcised too. But looking at the mouth-watering thing, Castiel spitting on it and mixing the saliva with his own excessive precome, Dean realized he couldn’t care less about anything other than being fucked.

“Get in, now.”

“Okay.”

Castiel pushed into him.

He bottomed out quickly, rim pushed spit gushing onto the motel sheets below. Should've gotten a towel. Maybe a washcloth for after the fact. Dean's eyes rolled back, utterly indifferent to whatever mess they made. Jolting when Castiel petted his dick encouragingly, not wanting him to soften due to the discomfort.

And then, Castiel started fucking him—ramming into him with these hard thrusts, slapping skin and sharing sweat, shallow to deep, missing his prostate still but Dean knew Castiel would find it soon. There was this one spring, digging into where his kidney would be. But it was still perfect.

The Castiel that was fucking him was a sad shadow of the angel he had been. Dean barely recognized him some days: face riddled with wrinkles, some grey hairs growing in his sideburns, and not to mention his eyes. They were once bright and full of his angelic radiance. But now those eyes remained muted.

The sad truth was, Dean made him this way: Castiel fell, emptied of his grace and shunned from Heaven’s light, all because of Dean. And it was painful to see, especially so clearly on his buddy's face. Still, Castiel was the type of angel—no. The type of man who could be hurt and torn to shreds but could still look at you and smile and forgive.  
Dean shouted into his pillow as Castiel hit his prostate.

Castiel hit it again. And again. And again. Finally getting both the rhythm and aim right.

Dean came without warning. So fast it was nearly embarrassing. But Castiel just looked at him, awestruck, and said devoutly, “Oh Father, what have I done to deserve such beauty?” But all the sentiment was directed to Dean. And that in itself was so incredibly arousing, Dean clenched.

Castiel came hard, pushing his head into Dean’s neck.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Dean said, rubbing his nape.

Castiel pulled out, crashing onto his side of the bed and catching his breath.

"Did you enjoy that?" Castiel asked, voice gravelly.

"Duh," Dean half-laughed half-giggled, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Good," Castiel murmured. "I'm sleepy."

Dean shook his head, "Of course you are, caveman."

Castiel nuzzled into Dean's neck, "Next time you can fuck me."

"Ride 'em, cowboy," Dean said.

"And I'll suck your cock," Castiel continued, spent.

"I look forward to next time, then," Dean pressed a briny kiss to Castiel's temple.

Castiel said something inaudible, falling asleep.

Dean sucked in a harsh breath at the smooth lines and relaxed muscles of Castiel's unconscious face. He was so handsome. Castiel let out a little snore, cute and soft like a whisper. In sleep he was carefree, his face as pure as a dewdrop, making gentle snuffling noises as he breathed. Dean wished he could swallow the sound and keep it within him forever.

He shook his head. When his thoughts became nonsense, and all the more interesting for it, he knew he was on the cusp of falling asleep. Now all he had to do was follow. He let his eyes slip closed, everything becoming muddled. Sleep tugged at his mind as he relaxed into it.

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They woke up tangled together under the heavy duvet. Dean's alarm beeping steadily on the bedside table. Castiel groaned, pressing his face deeper into the concave of his pillow. Dean reached over blindly, shutting off the alarm and turning on the side lamp.

"Time to crash a birthday party," Dean said, letting the covers slide off his body.

"It's too early."

Dean got up from the bed, dressing, "I forgot how cute you are in the morning."

"M'not cute," Castiel grumbled, sitting up. "I just wish we wouldn't have to get up before sunrise."

Setting his hat on his head, "Hey, that's the mayor's fault. He's the weirdo that throws a birthday party at goddamn 6 AM."

"Maybe you should go hatless," Castiel said, looking at him enticingly. "I want to be able to control myself."

Dean blushed, leaning over to kiss the smug look of the angel's face. "Shut up, Casanova."


	6. there's a killer on the road, his brain is squirmin' like a toad

On the ride over, they held hands.

The last time Dean'd done anything resembling hand-holding was with Lisa. And that was over nine years ago. So, he was a little rusty. He was twitchy and his hand sweated like a bitch—it was clammy and weird like a teenager on a first date. But he didn't want to stop touching Castiel. He _never_ wanted to, actually. But that was impractical. So, every time they came to a red light, he'd extract his hand for a second to wipe on his pant leg. Then, without any fanfare, they'd resume the position.

There was a lump in his throat the entire time. It wasn't because he was sad. Actually, the opposite. He was just so happy they were able to do this. Were able to have each other. There often wasn't a happily-ever-after in this life. And they were anything but a normal pair. But for the first time in a while, things felt hopeful. With their fingers intertwined, Dean felt like he could overcome almost anything. Jack going soulless? Sign him up. Michael coming back? A walk in the park. A Vanir or Yeska or what the fuck ever? He could do this in his sleep. He felt invincible.

But not cocky. There was a difference between optimism and unwarranted overconfidence. No, he didn't think he was some OP badass with Castiel at his side. But he knew that whatever life threw at him, it would never seem as horrible with the love of his life as his backup. Monsters would keep on keeping on. But so would he. And for the first time in years, he had something to keep that bottle out of his hand and the gun out of his mouth. 

They pulled up to the courthouse, seeing a mass of people surrounding the UFO statue. 

"Holy spiked cool-aid, Batman. It's like Waco all over again." 

"Did you know that the Branch Davidians siege _didn't_ happen in Waco?"

"What?" Dean cut his eyes over to Castiel. "Then why the fuck is it called that?"

"It happened _near_ the city. And everyone just went with it."

"When did you learn that useless piece of information?"

"History channel."

Dean bit his cheek to stop from smiling. "You're a dork."

"It's confirmation bias at its finest, Dean. It's interesting."

"Well, I confirm that you're a dork."

And then they were kissing. It was just a peck. But it erupted a volcano of lava in his lower abdomen. 

If this was how the rest of their life was going to be, random displays of affection and intimacy, then Dean couldn't wait.

Pulling back, Castiel rested their foreheads together. "I love you."

Dean's eyes sprung open. "Oh. Um, awesome sauce?" He offered a high five.

"Did you just Andy Dwyer me?" Castiel gave him a hairy eyeball.

"Well, I figured it's better than Han Soloing," Dean smiled sheepishly, lowering his hand to clench anxiously at his thigh. "But, um, I hope you aren't expecting something grand, Cas. On a random case. In front of a huge ass UFO statue. Especially, when I have trouble saying those words to my mom. I mean, we both know that I have issues. . . But I hope you aren't expecting me to suddenly be a brand-spanking-new and improved version of myself just because we slipped some tongue."

Castiel caressed his face. "Don't worry, Dean. I know you're emotionally constipated." 

"Oh, good." Dean leaned into the touch. "So, uh, until I _can_ say it back. . . Olive juice."

"Olive juice?"

"If I mouth it, it looks like I love you."

Castiel leaned back, staring at his mouth, "I'll accept olive juice—particularly if it means I can look at your lips."

Dean laughed a little, flushed, looking out the front window. "We should probably go kick some ass, Casserole."

"Yes. And maybe eat some casserole while we're at it. We skipped breakfast and I'm hungry." 

Getting into the party was so easy it was scary. There was no security. There were no metal detectors (which meant Dean could have his gun, full of witch killing bullets, shove down the back of his waistband). And the entire crowd was gathering outdoors. With no fuss or hassle, they walked right up to the food table and suddenly were crashing the party. Dean wrung his hands, shoving them into his pockets. It felt too easy.

Looking around, they saw some familiar faces. The sheriff was front and center at the fondue fountain. The Joyce Byers look-alike secretary was sitting at the edge of the gaieties reading a book. The bulky bodyguards were unarmed, vulnerable, and eating tiny burger sliders. And even the mayor was spottable. Sitting at a table cloth covered picnic table, sipping at champagne, he looked like the douchey-ist douche to douche. 

"Should we go confront him?" 

"I have my angel blade and you have witch killing bullets in case things go awry."

They studied the mayor, who was shmoozing a man in a powdered wig, whilst hiding behind the towering cake with soft voices. Being undercover was an unspoken rule of cases like these. But they'd both immediately fell into their roles—quiet, mute, secret operatives. Well, Dean liked to think that was what they were going for. Who knew with Castiel. The guy was just silent sometimes.

"Wouldn't stealth be better? We wouldn't want to create a mob by firing off a few shots. That'd be chaos." 

But before they could debate further, Mayor Summers tapped the side of his glass with a spoon to get everyone's attention.

"Thank you. I wanna thank all of you for being here on this special occasion. Today, my final and greatest sacrifice will be a landmark in this town, I want to thank each of you personally. But first, honey—please come down here."

The mayor's daughter came down the steps and two of the mayor's henchmen were on her fast, binding her arms and securing her to the UFO statue.

"Daddy?"

"My final tribute must be a virgin," He said leeringly. "So, Yeska, please perceive the weight of this sacrifice."

"Damn," Dean whispered to Castiel, lips brushing on his ear, "He's going full Thanos."

Castiel scowled at him, "If you dare spoil me, Dean, I swear to Chuck."

"It's been six months, Cas," Dean rolled his eyes. "The grace period is over."

Thankfully, their angry half-whispering half-shouting didn't attract any attention. 

Although that furtiveness immediately got thrown out the window when they realized they needed to act fast and stop the Davric from being summoned. They tried and break the whole ordeal up, Castiel with his angel blade and Dean holding his gun—AKA, they waved them around with less than stellar intimidating scowls on their faces. No one paid them any mind, not even the mayor's bodyguards, all too engrossed by the light show going on from the toastee. And the mayor, who was the least affected of them all, started to chant despite their best efforts.

"The hour approaches Yeska. Do not be blind to my plea. Yeska I beseech thee." A convenient wind started to blow, distracting everyone further, "Appear! Yeska!"

An ugly gray-skinned chick with a blonde Afro appeared with a flicker of lightning in front of the Mayor's daughter.

Dean winced, prepared to see a repeat of the mutilation of the prostitute. He held up his gun, shooting a couple of rounds into the bitches back. Nothing. Castiel threw his angel blade, with beautiful precision, directly into her spinal cord. Nothing. Actually, she seemed _more_ stalwart than before they attacked. And suddenly, she was levitating. There was the hue around her, too. Like anything in a six-inch radius was dimmed and absorbed. Her skin was turning less and less gray with each passing second. Like she was photosynthesizing everything around her. Dean watched in horror as the bitch tossed her head back and cackled.

"You Wandoughts are more useless than nipples on a man," She sneered, then instantly stopped paying attention to them.

Dean and Castiel looked at each other in confusion—_nipples on a man?_

Bewildered, they didn't realize that Yeska had turned her awareness back to the Mayor's daughter._ W_ith an unflinching grin, Yeska floated over to the girl. "The Sacrifice—", the girl stared at her wide-eyed and Yeska's grin vanished, "—is impure!"

The mayor looked scandalized. "Impure?"

"Daddy, virginity is a social construct!"

Dean snorted in disbelief.

Yeska glowered, looking at the mayor in revulsion, "You've wasted my time, mortal."

The mayor trembled. "I'm so sorry, my goddess, please spare me. . ."

"Your life is spared. But not your abilities. Never convoke me again, or you will be at the mercy of my wrath." 

And with that Yeska vanished herself the same way she appeared.

Mopping his forehead with his sleeve, Dean shook his head in wonder, "Well, talk about anti-climactic."

As the split-second festivities calm down, everyone blinked back into awareness. The dozen or so bystanders started talking loudly, almost drowning out the incessant voice of the mayor—who, after losing control of the situation, stood to his full height and shouted at an unsuspecting Dean, "How dare you," The Mayor has a sour tilt to his mouth, face entirely red, "How dare you!"

"Uh, sorry-not-sorry you don't get to be all-powerful and stuff," Dean said awkwardly.

The Mayor shook his head, pointing to his cowering daughter and then back at Dean.

"She's only 17—how dare you make her impure!"

"Woah, buddy!" Dean held up his hands. "I have literally never seen her in my life before now."

"And you're almost my age, how disgusting, you pervert," The mayor ignored Dean's denials, putting his hands on his hips.

"Now, listen," Dean said grumpily, "We aren't turning the tables here. You were about to kill her!"

"I wish I could—"

Castiel raised his eyebrows, interrupting, "You wish? Why aren't you using your magic?"

"Why aren't we Hansel and Gretel soup right now?" Dean asked in turn, redirecting to the Mayor, "Where's the fireworks now, buddy?"

The Mayor squirmed. "Yeska was my power source and—"

"So you ain't-a warlock?" Dean clarified, "You're just some douche that tried to make a demon deal with a monster?"

"Well. . ." The Mayor swallowed. "I wouldn't reduce my relationship with Yeska to such a debauched level."

"Goddamn. And I really wanted to kill him," Dean crossed his arms with a pout, watching the Mayor's eyes bulge. "Oh, nut up you misogynistic asshole. You're lucky your party ended the way it did. If you'd gotten all those abilities, we would've had to gank your ass. But you're just a human so we ain't gonna kill you."

"If only Yeska accepted my offering," The mayor bemoaned.

Castiel petted Dean's shoulder, turning his striking blue eyes at the mayor, "Since you're human, and impotent without the Davric, we're going to spare you. But if you ever try and do something like this ever again, we'll come back to town. And let's just say, we've got a way of sorting things out—" Castiel smirked as he said it.

The mayor blinked rapidly, "I don't. . ."

Dean pointed to the sheriff, who was laying on the ground watching the entire thing with a dumbstruck expression. The old bastard started when he realized Dean was focused on him, "We might not be killing you, but we are gonna make sure you're going to jail for the deaths of all those women. I don't care how corrupt the cops are in this town, you're gonna pay for what you did to that prostitute. Sheriff, are you in cahoots with Mayor Summers and Yeska?"

"No," The sheriff gulped. "I didn't know about this. I only do what he says. I didn't know about. . . Yeska."

"Is he lying, Cas?" Dean raised an eyebrow at his angel.

"If he is, we'll come back and deal with him, too," Castiel said ordinarily but it was still incredibly intimidating.

It took a couple of hours, and a few confused pedestrians asking way too many questions, but the mayor was formally charged with killing all of the women—Castiel's bloody ritual knife with both the blood of many victims and the mayor's smudgy fingerprints were taken in as evidence. He'd still have to go through a court hearing, though. And the charge had to be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Dean felt a little shifty at that. Everyone who had attended the birthday party, including the goddamn town judge, knew that the mayor was guilty. Still, Dean had a nasty feeling that the mayor would get off easy. He had power, political instead of magic, but that was all he needed in this instance, and simple-minded folk always were persuaded easily.

"We didn't gank the big bad."

"True," Castiel allowed, "But we did solve and stop the threat."

"I dunno, this just doesn't feel _done_. Y'know?"

"When we get back to the bunker, we can confer with Sam on ways of destroying a Devric."

Dean nodded, feeling a little bit better, "Yeah. Okay."

"We'll summon her inside a containment circle of some sorts—using the same spell the mayor used."

"I'm surprised your angel blade didn't do the trick."

"I was surprised as well."

"Maybe if we still had the colt."

Castiel stated, "An angel blade has the same properties as the colt."

"Okay, Bill Nye."

"I'm sure the science guy wouldn't be interested in something as mystical as a magical gun and an angelic blade."

"You're _such_ a dork."

"Thank you."

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, watching as Aurora, Texas got smaller on the horizon behind them. He grumbled, "Why's it always me that gets accused of sleeping with the virgins?" 

“You’ve got that roguishly handsome face,” Castiel said. “Like Blondie.”

“I’m the man with no name,” Straightening up, Dean grinned. But then he pouted, “But then he said I was almost his age. Can you believe that douche insinuated I was close to 50?" Dean scoffed, settling behind the Impala's wheel. "I oughta killed him."

Castiel looked at him from under his eyelashes. “Don't worry, I like middle-aged men.”

“Middle-aged,” Dean tightened his fingers around the wheel, looking at Castiel. “You’re older than dirt, buddy.”

“Is it a competition?”

“If it is, I doubt you'd win Mr. Bajillion-year-old.”

Castiel shifted and suddenly he was holding Dean’s hand, “And this is why evolution should be taught in high schools.”

“Are you calling me dumb?” Dean tried to tease, but he couldn't really focus on anything else but their connected palms. “Because you’d be right.”

“I hope you do live to be 50. And then 90, like that older gentleman,” Castiel said wistfully. “And I can only hope to endure that long in this body beside you—”

"Listen, just because we're. . . together doesn't mean you get to be all chick-flick."

"Whatever you say, my love."

His brain melted and squirmed a little at the endearment, and then he blanched.

"Oh, God. I almost forgot." Dean dropped his head on the back of the bench seat and groaned. "I'm gonna have to tell Sammy about us." 


	7. you see he stand 'bout 6'4, all the downtown ladies call him "treetop lover"

"Sammy?" Sam heard Dean's voice call out to him. He slowly closed his laptop, pausing Hulu and sighing. Pearl and Rose would have to wait—he wouldn't normally watch a show about gay space rocks, but Eileen had suggested it before she passed and he was done putting it off. He wouldn't tell Dean he'd cried over a cartoon kid's mom leaving him a videotape before she died. It'd be embarrassing. Plus, the asshole would read _way_ too far into it.

"Dean?" He called back.

Dean came down the stairs, a duffle bag over his shoulder. Castiel was right behind him.

"Hey, kiddo," Dean said, coming over to ruffle his hair. "Where's Jack?"

Sam didn't mention the obvious; he was way too old to have his hair ruffled. "He's hanging out with his friends."

"Max, Stacy, and Elliot?" Castiel asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, " I think so."

"You think so?" Castiel raised an eyebrow.

"Calm down, Mr. Mom," Dean looked over at Castiel and smirked, "Baby birds flown the nest. But he'll come back."

"Right," Castiel exhaled the breath he'd unconsciously collected. "It's wrong to _helicopter_."

Dean snorted.

Sam looked down and noticed them holding hands. He beamed—fucking finally. "So, was it a Davric?"

"Yeah, something called Yeska," Dean said.

He scanned them over for any wounds. "You guys look unscathed for once. Or did Cas mojo your booboos away?"

"Well, the big boss fight kinda fizzled out when the Davric realized the final sacrifice wasn't a virgin."

"Scandalous," Sam said, fanning himself with his hand and pretend-swooning. "Sounds like southern fried Downton Abbey."

"Is Texas southern?" Castiel asked, "I assumed it wasn't. It's more western. With cowboys instead of rednecks."

"El Paso is closer to California than it is to Louisiana."

"And that means?" 

Sam shrugged, fiddling with his hair and tucking it behind his ear, "You could drop Austin, Houston, or the Central Texas metro area into Northern California and hardly tell the difference. And I'm saying that as someone who lived in Palo Alto for nearly four years. Maybe it's not southern. Maybe it's western. But are we, two incredibly midwestern boys and a naive angel, really allowed to be determining that kind of thing? I say leave it to the experts and the locals."

Dean huffed out a laugh, "That's true. I'd kneel over if I heard someone claim Kansas was part of the confederacy."

Sam held his fist up for a bump. "Union, baby!"

The brothers laughed as they fist-bumped.

Castiel just looked bewildered. 

And then, with nothing else to report or talk about, the fact that Castiel and Dean were still holding hands seemed very obvious.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Dean tried, "Sam, I want you to know that—"

He cut off when he noticed Sam staring pointedly at his and Castiel's joined hands. "Dude, you're holding hands. I get it."

"Good," Dean coughed, clumsily rubbing the back of his neck.

"I mean, I've _gotten_ it for years."

"Okay, okay. . . you can stop that," Dean grumbled, the tips of his ears red.

"Listen, I'm just celebrating. I've been waiting for this for a while. That might be an understatement. It's been over ten years, Dean. So, let me gloat."

"Gloat?" Castiel furred his brows.

"Tease," Dean interpreted.

Now that that was out of the way, Sam figured he'd cut them some slack. For now. "So, this Yeska was killing the girls?" Sam changed the subject.

"The mayor was," Castiel said, acting no different than usual. He still seemed confused over their fist bump, though. Which Sam would giggle about when he was alone. Then he'd be forced to track down Castiel to explain and give a brief history lesson. Right now? Dean'd make a big deal outta being a shit. Surely, Castiel knew about the Civil War, but it's significance today might've been lost on the little holy roller. Sam knew when to fight his battles. "The pattern and such was just him exacting judgment—so really, the only monster was human. But we let him live and left after giving him a warning."

"I know we kill monsters," Dean started, pursing his lips, "But I don't think we need to be the executioner on human crimes."

"Fine by me," Sam said, unbothered. If what Dean said is true, the mayor is technically a human now. It'd be a different story if the guy was a regular Elphaba. Maybe they'd call in Rowena for that. But a Joe Shmoe human? That was essentially boring. "And if he does act up again, we'll get Jack to fly down there and flash his wings. Maybe put the fear of God in him. I hear that helps."

Castiel chuckled, "We'll leave out the part where Jack's father is Lucifer, I assume?"

"That'll be our back up," Dean grinned. "Besides, I figured we'd summon the Davric and gank her—that'll get rid of his biggest power source. I have a feeling he won't give up so readily. Even if she did threaten to kill him if he contacted her again. Junkies are a different breed of desperate."

Sam looked over at the library full of books, a crick already forming in his neck. "And I'm doing the research in that plan, huh?"

"Well. . ." Dean gave him his best shit-eating grin, "If you're not doing anything else." 

Rolling his eyes, Sam sighed, "You're lucky you apologized for being a dick already. Or I'd hold that fight against you _so damn hard_."

"Thanks, Samuel." Dean actually seemed sincere. Sam figured he was still on a high from this thing with Castiel.

"You own me, jerk."

"Whatever, bitch."

Sam thought of something and frowned. "So, the mayor was killing the goats, too?"

Dean and Castiel froze.

"Son of a bitch!"

Sam shook his head, heading to his room to pack, "Guess we're all going back to Texas."

At least he got out of backbreaking researching for one more day. Although, Chupacabra hunting wasn't a happy alternative. And spending the next few days with a honeymooned Dean and Cas could be enough to make him jump off a cliff. He scowled. Dean making a demon deal and rotting in Hell for forty-years would be nothing compared to Sam's self-sacrifice dealing with _this_ bullshit. Guess he'd have to pack some earmuffs.

[Sam wearing the earmuffs Dean eventually buys for him!]

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**Author's Note:**

> Comment, kudos, and bookmark! I appreciate the feedback.


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